Blood Roses
by Vanillasiren
Summary: The beginnings of a revolution. The connection between the two presidents who will fight for control of Panem.
1. Intro

Blood Roses

Summary: For all his seeming omnipotence in Panem, Snow was sensible enough to know that he wouldn't live forever. Therefore, he needed to groom a successor. Among the candidates is a brilliant, ambitious young woman named Alma. Yeah, I went there.

Prologue: The Game Begins

_Victory Tour of the 45__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

It's her first time at the Presidential Palace.

Bu she's determined it won't be her last.

Her father's name may have opened the door – how typical of him, to manage to continue helping her even after his death – but it's she who is determined to walk through that door and into something better. She's young, she knows (she's just turned 25) but it's never too early to get a start as a power player on the political scene, and that's exactly what she intends to do.

She knows what the rest of Panem sees when they look at the citizens of the Capitol: the ridiculous outfits, the extreme plastic surgeries, the exaggerated accents. And in many ways, yes, that's the typical Capitol citizen, but there is another class of the elite, operating somewhat more … behind the scenes. Those of strength and intelligence, those who don't mind a little fun and frivolity but don't wallow it. The nation's thinkers and planners and game makers, who keep the machine of government humming and running smooth.

She knows which group she belongs in.

The evening is going as expected. Her mother fusses at her for not wearing a more elaborate outfit or "at least dyeing your hair a celebratory shade darling, really…"

She knows her outfit is subdued, especially by Capitol standards; the dress is sleek and black, and only a few jewels adorn her bare skin. er Her makeup is understated, though she did use something that she hopes will make what her mother helpfully refers to as her "drab gray eyes" look blue. Her hair she has put up in a simple style, opting to keep it its natural red. Her hair is one of the few things she's vain about, and she doesn't like to alter it.

Amidst the elaborate gowns and suits and all the bright colors, everyone demanding the most attention from their neighbors, she knows that she's the one that stands out the most.

And by the end of the evening, her mother is praising her "fashion strategy."

It's not enough. A triumph of wardrobe is not enough for her.

But it's a start.

The presidential welcome music sounds, and they all look up. President Snow stands above them. He just turned 45 this year, and his brown hair and beard bear the faintest shades of white. The white rose is in his lapel, as always. She watches, sees the smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and wonders what he is thinking.

What she wouldn't give to know what the most powerful man in the country is really thinking…

It takes her a minute to realize his gaze is resting on her. She feels her heart beat faster, in fear, or excitement or both, and she tilts her chin up, meets his gaze evenly, gives him her most impassive expression. A different sort of smile catches at the corners of his mouth, and then they are all toasting the Victor, and before she knows it, the evening is at end.

He might just have one of his people tracking down her records right now. In fact, she hopes he is.

Because then he'll learn not only who her father is, but who _she_ is, and what she can do. Her scores and early graduation from the most prestigious political academy in the Capitol have to count for something…

He has been collecting them, she knows, to stay in touch with the pulse of the times, the bright young minds of the Capitol, employing them as speech writers, directors, game makers, and she may be the youngest yet, but she wants to be part of that group.

She wants to do things, she wants to change things. She wants to make history.

She wants nothing more than to be his protégé. And nothing less than to be his successor.

She wants to hold this country in the palm of her hand.

Author's Note: In the books and on the wikis, it states that Coin is in her mid-50s, and Snow is about 75. So estimating her age to be about 55, that puts 20 years between them, which is why she's 25 and he's 45 here.


	2. Chapter 1

Blood Roses 

Chapter One: The Tributes

She's hasn't been summoned.

It's been three weeks – _three whole weeks_! – and she hasn't been summoned, or tailed, or even brought in for questioning! She hasn't gotten any closer to her goals, she hasn't gotten any closer to the President, and she hasn't gotten any closer to impressing anyone of any importance. There is only one conclusion, and she doesn't like to admit it to herself, but it is rapidly becoming apparent.

She's not important enough to get noticed. She vastly overestimated the significance of a single look. She's simply not worthy of his attention.

If she were truly a vain, foolish Capitol girl, she might just sit and pout.

Luckily, she is a resourceful young woman, and that means having contingency plans.

And her contingency plan is about to kick in.

Although the Hunger Games are so often the focus of the Capitol's political and social life, there are other events that occasionally take center stage. And this year, it's a presentation of the recent top graduates from the political academy. And of course she's one of them. And to demonstrate what they've learned, there is to be a debate.

Of course, since it's never completely out of their minds, this debate will be about the Hunger Games.

It's an old song, she knows. Every once in a while, someone makes noise about wanting to end the Games, someone questions their importance. It's usually a weak, half-hearted sort of protest, the kind of thing very few people disappear over. And when students or former students are invited to debate, most of them go the safe route, and argue strongly in favor of the Games, hoping to curry favor with the political elite.

But she's got an entirely different strategy…

After all, you don't get noticed by going along with the crowd.

And quite aside from that, she's never liked the Games much anyway. They make her feel … well, she doesn't know what exactly, but it's not pleasant. And she doesn't like dealing with uncertain emotions.

She prepares quickly, but still considers her appearance. Hair up – a ponytail? No, that'll make her look like a little girl. A bun or something, a twist at the nape of the neck, that will do. Minimal make up. And the dress.

Nothing bright. Navy. Blue. Black. Gray.

She decides on the navy, which compliments her figure without advertising it. She wants to be noticed for her mind, not her body.

And finally, she examines her face in the mirror. She practices what she calls her "impassive expression" and what her father teasingly referred to as her "Stone face" when she was growing up. She's been told she's hard to read; it's no accident. When her mother complains that she's taciturn, she takes it as a compliment, though of course it's not meant that way.

She doesn't want anyone to know what she is really thinking.

"Incoming message," the computer informs her, and she turns the view screen, where her mother's face pops up.

"Darling, you look … appropriate." Her mother prefers brighter hues.

"Thanks."

"Oh, you know I didn't mean it like that." She feels the familiar pinprick of guilt. Her mother may get on her nerves sometimes, but she means well.

"I know."

"Good luck today. Not that you need it." Her father always used to say that her mother had the sweetest smile, and it's true. Her mother's face is open, not guarded like her own. She couldn't lie to save her life. "I'm proud of you. Your father would be proud too."

"Thank you mom. Really."

"You nervous?"

"Never."

"Hm. Be careful." That's how she usually ends their conversations. Her mother would tell her "be careful" if she so much as went for a strong around the block.

"Of course," she lies easily and ends the call.

She loves her mother, but that doesn't she needs to know everything. She worries enough as it is.

You don't get noticed by being careful.

So now it's her second time at the presidential palace.

She and her fellow graduates – they are "tributes" here, as much as any child in the arena. It may be a (slightly) less deadly form of competition, but they are fighting for their political survival, fighting not to fade into obscurity or frivolity, and in the end, only one of them can claim the real prize.

If President Snow was looking for a direct successor, there's always his daughter, of course. Only a young woman of 15 now, but it's not as though he needs an immediate replacement. But the scuttlebutt has been that he has already considered and discounted the possibility of her taking over for him.

Alma can think of several reasons for this, not among the least of which is that he wants to maintain some semblance of the pseudo-democracy of Panem and has no desire to establish a dynasty (and if he did want to establish a dynasty, he probably would have remarried and had more children after his wife died). His daughter did not attend the political academy, as she would have done if he wanted her to. From the little she knows of the girl, she gets the sense that her aspirations do not extend beyond coveting the latest fashions and enjoying all the privileges that come from being the President's daughter. She's no threat, no competition.

Her classmates, on the other hand, may prove problematic.

She's maintained pseudo-friendships with most of them, if only to size them up. Some are smart. Others are just arrogant and lucky and have the right pedigrees. A few of the men take it as a personal insult that she never accepted their romantic overtures (which it is).

She's almost certain not a one of them will have the courage, must less the skill, to make the arguments she's going to make.

She can't be the only one comparing this to the Arena, she knows. For starters, only 12 of the graduates have been selected to debate. That can't be a coincidence. They each have their own podium, on the ground, while President Snow and other important political leaders watch from above.

Someday, _she'll_ be the one watching from on high…

But in order to achieve that, she needs to focus on the here and now.

When the arguments begin and the questions are poised, she lets the other take the lead, content to wait until she hears a question that suits her.

"Can anyone come up with reasons why we should discontinue the Games?" The moderator asks.

This is soft scattering of chuckles, as if this idea is so ridiculous as to be laughable.

"I can." She says it calmly, loudly, and without a trace of a tremor in her voice.

But when everyone turns and stares at her, she feels her pulse begin to quicken.

She resists the urge to lower her gaze, shift her feet, or clear her throat.

"Such as?"

Suddenly, she feels like an Avox, robbed of speech. Because it's not the moderator asking the question.

It's President Snow himself.

She swallows and looks upward. Sometimes, she thinks she imagined him making eye contact with her before, those few weeks ago, but there's no mistaking how his gaze is leveled at her now. His eyes are light blue and his expression is deceptively mild, but she has no doubt that if he doesn't like her answer, there's more than her political career on the line.

"I think the Games actually encourage dissent from the Districts, sir." _Don't shake. Don't shake._ She keeps her eyes on his.

"Really?" His tone is almost gentle. "And yet so many seem to take the opposite view. The Games are what discourage the Districts from … agitating."

She considers making a "clever" comeback about the herd mentality, but looking into his eyes, she's quite convinced to play it straight. "I respectfully disagree, sir. The Games breed resentment and emphasize the distance between the citizens of the Capitol and the rest of the country."

A smile breaks out on his face, which she finds strangely disarming. "I can concede to your first point, but as to your second, I hardly think emphasizing the difference between the Capitol and the Districts is a bad thing." Another smattering of laughter, more nervous this time.

"Then it's strange that in your last speech you emphasized unity," she fires back at him boldly. "I seem to recall you discussing at length how we were one people, one voice, united by the common cause of advancing the power and glory of Panem … no matter where in this great nation we happened to be born."

Several people around her gasp at her audacity, but she pays them no mind. Her heart is beating very fast and seems to have moved from her chest to somewhere around the vicinity of her throat. He looks … amused with her, but she has no idea what that means, no idea what will happen next. She's doing her best to maintain her impassive expression, but it's not confidence that keeps her eyes locked on his.

She's fairly certain she couldn't tear her gaze away if she tried.

"That is not precisely what I meant, Miss …?" He's playing with her now. He knows her name, of course he does. But she can play too.

"Stone. Alma Stone."*

"Miss Stone," he continues smoothly. "But if that was the impression you got from my speech, perhaps I need to work on being clearer."

If there's a hint of a threat in his voice, she pays it no mind. "Or maybe you need a new speech writer."

"Are you volunteering?"

She lowers her gaze then, in parody of modesty that she knows he'll see right through.

"If you'll have me. I would be honored … sir." She looks back up at him, her smirk fading. Something about him, the way he looks at her … her breath catches. She should be afraid, but she's not. She feels only … exhilarated.

"I'll consider that, Miss Stone." She can't tell if she serious or not. "Now, back to the Games … what would you propose, instead?"

"Excuse me?"

"You argue that we should put an end to the Games. Now, your reasons for that may not be entirely sound, but as we are running out of time, I should like to know, what do you think should take their place? As you are well aware, a great deal of the country's social and cultural life center on the Hunger Games. Eliminating them would leave a significant void. So what do you propose to fill that void?"

For the first time, she falters. "Well, I … I mean, I don't propose eliminating them, exactly."

"Oh you don't?" His tone is subtly mocking now. "I must have misunderstood you earlier." A few people snicker.

She takes a deep breath. "I just don't think anyone should die."

His expression is difficult to read. "Interesting. And how would that work, exactly?"

He keeps his eyes on her and she continues to talk. Tributes could be eliminated, she tells them, in simulated combat and other scenarios. Alternatively or in conjuction with that, tributes could be voted off by viewers of the Games or even by each other. The Games are already as much a popularity contest as anything else, and the alliances and intrigues and backstabbing are half the "fun," so why not play up that aspect of it, as well as make more interactive?

When she finishes, she's quiet breathless, and as the echo of her voice fades, complete silence seems to fill the cavernous space. He hasn't stopped looking at her, not this whole time, and she can't tell from his expression if he's duly impressed with or she's just committed political suicide (or actual suicide!) and the moment seems to stretch on forever….

"It's an interesting concept, I'll grant you that." His words tell her nothing. He nods to the moderator, and before she knows it, the debate is at end.

Afterwards, she assembles with her fellow "tributes" in the banquet hall. She wants to look like the picture of calm, but that's hard to pull that off when her stomach is in knots and she can't eat a thing. A voice in her head that sounds an awful lot like her mother asks her what on _earth_ she was thinking, and she can't come up with a satisfactory answer.

When one of Snow's personal security guards taps her own the shoulder, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

The man speaks to her quietly, but still loud enough for those around her to hear. "The President would like to speak with you."

She looks back, to find expressions ranging from sympathetic to smug. She can only hope her own face betrays no emotions.

"Nice knowing you, Alma," someone calls out, as she follows the guard. She recognizes the voice of Gaius Aquinas, who stopped asking her out on dates after three refusals. The guard leads her through a set of doors, and they close on her before she can think of a clever comeback.

"Miss Stone." The President smiles at her, showing his teeth. It makes him look feral, predatory. Like a snake about to strike. Is it terror she feels, or triumph at having so thoroughly captured his attention? She can't be sure. He gestures elegantly. "Please, sit."

"I prefer to stand … if you don't mind, sir." The rather morbid thought occurs to her that she'd rather die on her feet, and she can't quite manage to brush it aside. _Oh god, I've overplayed my hand. _

"Very well. I must say, Miss Stone, you certainly made an impression today."

It takes her a minute to find her voice. "Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"Well that depends. Did you really mean the things you said?"

She swallows. "Well, sir, that depends."

"Indeed? On what?"

"On what answer is the least likely to get me killed."

He chuckles. "And here I thought you had no fear."

"I'm not afraid." _I'm terrified. _"But I would very much like to continue breathing."

"Oh my," he says softly. "You are rather remarkable, aren't you?"

And it's at this, after everything, that her eyes drop, and she grows red. She cannot believe herself, cannot understand the warmth she feels in her face – with her life quite possibly literally on the line, how can a simple compliment undo her composure? She is Alma Stone. She's going to run this country some day!

She does not … _blush!_

"Oh, now I've embarrassed you." It takes everything in her to meet his eyes again.

"Not at all … sir."

"You're not a very good liar, my dear. Yet. Do you know, I think you have a great deal of potential, even if some of your ideas are a bit … misguided." The emphasis he puts on the last word almost makes her shiver. "I believe we have a position in the Ministry of Affairs that would suit you nicely."

"You're offering me a job?"

He smirks at her. "Isn't that what you came here for?"

"Yes, but I didn't think …" She stammers … "I mean, I would never presume … that I would be given the honor of …"

"Don't lie." His voice is suddenly much sharper. "Not to me, not anymore. Of course you presumed. It's your presumption that got you this far. Just be careful you don't overreach yourself. Will you accept the position?"

"Of course," she manages to get out, feeling positively giddy. _Is this really happening?_

"Good. Your belongings will be moved into the mansion."

"What?" She blinks. "Oh, of course." Members of the political staff live in the presidential palace as well as working there. Space is hardly an issue, since the place is big enough to get lost in. "I look forward to…" she trails off, still disbelieving and not knowing how to finish.

"I seem to have rendered you speechless, Miss Stone. I have the feeling that is something of an accomplishment." He gives her what might pass for an indulgent smile. "Run along now."

She's still too ecstatic to bristle at the slight condescension in his tone. She walks away, practically floating out of the room, but at the door, she turns.

"Sir?"

"Yes?" He does not look up. He's already dismissed her.

"_Thank you." _

The sincerity in her voice recaptures his attention, however briefly.

"Oh, don't thank me yet. You have a great deal of work ahead of you. I hope you are equal to the task."

She tilts her chin up. "I am." _You're going to wonder what you ever did without me. I'm going to make myself indispensable!_

"We shall see."

And after the bodyguard lets her out, and she has a precious moment alone, the only way she keeps herself from jumping up and down and squealing with glee is by reminding herself that it is not a dignified way for the future president of Panem to behave.

*This her "maiden name" (remember, in the movie Prim says she had husband … more on that later).


	3. Chapter 2

Blood Roses

Chapter Two: The Games Begin

It's … a little strange, living in the presidential palace.

She's not the only one, of course. Several of the "tributes" from the political debate have found positions in the government, and that's to be expected. But she's fairly certain she's the only one of them that had President Snow personally confirm their appointment. And that's something. That's a start.

She can build on that.

Even if her job is, as it turns, rather dull.

Writing copy and reading old speeches is not fun. She knows it's part of her training, that she's on the lowest rung of the ladder, and that each time she ascends it will get more interesting, but it's hard to keep that in my mind when she's … bored. Her mind has been so busily churning with plans to get here, to get her foot in the door, that she should find the tedium of her work soothing, a respite, but of course, she simply craves more challenges, more stimulation.

She always does.

She wonders when Antonia will let her start writing for the propos, at least. At this rate, damned bitch will probably retire before she lets her do anything important!

No, no, that's not fair, that's her frustration talking. She actually rather likes her new boss, Antonia Agrippa. She likes her directness and her no-nonsense attitude. Antonia is close to 50, but has had none of the surgical "corrections" to turn back the clock that are so popular in the Capitol, and she has to admire the woman for not giving into to societal pressure or her own vanity. She still looks pretty good – all things considered, the epitome of aging gracefully. Her hair is black and sleek, touched with silver, and she moves with a mixture of ease, confidence, and grace that Alma hopes to emulate. While her ultimate dream is to someday take over for President Snow, in the shorter term, she's got her eye on being the Minister of Affairs, and she intends show Antonia Agrippa that she can be a worthy successor to her.

Assuming she ever gives her a chance to prove herself!

"Patience," her mother counsels her, when she vents during their calls. Alma dutifully calls her mother at least once a week, even when she doesn't feel like it or gets extra-busy with her tedious work, because, as her mother puts it, "It's the least you can do for the woman that gave you life, dear."

"When I have ever been patient?" She retorts, and is rewarded with her mother's wry smile. Alma's eagerness is something of a family legend. One of her mother's favorite stories is how she jumped into the deep end of the pool at age three when her father said he'd teach her to swim.

"Yes I know, but just try, darling." She actually rather looks forward to these little chats, but it's best her mother doesn't know that, or she might want to have them more often. "Remember, good things come…"

"….To those who take them for themselves."

Her mother purses her lips, trying to look disapproving instead of amused. "I don't think that's how it goes, Alma."

"I'm pretty sure it is."

"You think you're so clever…"

"Oh, I know I am." Her mother laughs, and quite suddenly, Alma wishes she could reach through the view screen and hug her. She won't admit it, but she's a little lonely here, and while she's good at gaining allies, friends are another matter entirely.

"Mom … have lunch with me tomorrow?"

"Of course darling!" Her mother reacts with pleased surprise.

Then spend a few more minutes discussing the exact time and arguing amiably over which restaurant they'll go to, and by the time she signs off, she feels a little better.

And the next day, as she passes the banquet hall, she has every intention of meeting her mother at the restaurant … until she sees what's set up in there.

Chess boards.

She slows, and then stops. To say chess is her favorite game is something of an understatement. Both her parent played it, with her father being especially fond of it (and especially good at it), and it seems she remembers being taught the game before learning how to walk. She's hasn't played in a while, mostly because she hasn't had a worthy adversary, but the people sitting down for this apparent impromptu tournament aren't just any government staff, they're Gamemakers, so they're guaranteed to put up a good fight….

She takes a few steps forward, and then has a brief, unpleasant memory of the Hunger Games, several years back, when the Arena was set up just like a chess board, every square of which wound up stained with blood…

Suddenly, it's a lot easier to resist the lure of the game.

"Alma, have you come to play?"

It's Gauis Aquinus, smirking at her from the table, and somehow managing to make his question sound like a sexual innuendo. She's well-aware he got a job with the gamemakers, although the man can't think his way out of a cardboard box; she can only assume the position was a favor to his father, who is one of the Capitol's most prominent politicians. She supposes Gauis is conventionally handsome, but she's never found him the least bit appealing or engaging, and she's not about to start pretending she does now.

She gives him a tight smile. "I have a lunch engagement."

"Hm." He gives her a disbelieving look. "Hope you're not making something up because you're afraid I'll beat you."

If it were someone else, she might rise to the bait, accept the challenge, but Gaius is simply not worthy of her time, for many reasons. The few conversations they've had have clearly indicated the only thing he even likes about her is physical appearance, something she finds far from flattering. She knows she's at least reasonably attractive, but when it comes to male admiration, she wants to be appreciated for more than just her body.

"Hardly." She rolls her eyes to let him know what she thinks of his weak taunt, with every intention of making a graceful exit, but when she looks upward, she realizes they have an audience.

An audience of one, to be exact. President Snow is looking down on them all, and she's fairly certain their voices have carried up to him. And then his gaze shifts unmistakably to her, waiting to see what she will do.

Without looking at Gauis, she says, "Well… I suppose I have time for a quick game." She suppresses a twinge of guilt as she quickly messages her mother that she's going to be late. It won't be so bad, she tells herself. Besides, unlike her, her mother has patience to spare.

"If you mean a quick loss for you, then I agree," he says as she sits down facing him. Good god, does he actually think that's a witty come back? Pathetic! She doesn't dignify it with a response. She just lets him make the first move.

To her surprise, he is a somewhat decent player, but imminently, he becomes predictable, and she uses an old-as-dirt diversionary tactic to distract him – the Queen's sacrifice. He's so excited about capturing her Queen, he doesn't see how he's left himself wide open, and in a few short moves….

"Checkmate."

Oh, but it's so satisfying to wipe that smug look off his face! He blinks stupidly, as if he can't quite trust his eyes, and then scowls as the reality of his defeat finally sinks in. She smiles, and is about to shake his hand in mock-politeness when she hears an unmistakable voice behind her.

"Well-played."

She turns to find President Snow standing by their table. She must have been so focused on the game that she didn't notice him make his way down to them. Their eyes meet again, and her pulse quickens.

Briefly, he looks past her at Gauis. "Not you," he clarifies, as if there was any doubt, and Gauis flushes with humiliation, giving her a murderous look. She supposes she should regret having made a real enemy of him, but she can only feel relief knowing for certain that he'll never ask her out again after this.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're quite welcome, my dear." He smiles at her, then frowns when he looks back at Gaius. "As for you, I only hope your skills have improved when the real Games begin."

Gauis stammers something, but the President is already walking away. There's a sort of casual elegance to the way he moves that she finds … compelling.

She floats out of the hall without even giving Gauis the courtesy of parting words, leaving him to lick his wounds as best he can. It serves him right for challenging her! She's already late for lunch, but she's sure her mother will forgive her when she hears the story of how she put Gaius in his place.

"The real games," President Snow had said, but she knows better. These_ are_ the real games, for her and for Gaius, and she's a far better player than he is, and that's why she's going to win the ultimate prize.


	4. Chapter 3

Blood Roses

Chapter Three: Interludes

Author's Note: If you like this story, please leave a review, because I'm not sure there's sufficient interest in it for me to continue, especially when there's other stuff I could be working on.

It had been a good day.

Lunch with her mother was a hurried affair, but at least she seemed to take her apologies in stride. Alma was flushed and excited from her victory, even if it was rather minor in the greater scheme, but of course her mother had to put a damper on things by telling her to _be careful_ about making enemies.

"I can handle Gaius Aquinas," Alma waved her hand dismissively, then reached for her drink.

"Hm. I hope so," he mother said. "Of course, it's a pity you can't actually meet a _nice _young man instead of just butting heads with an unpleasant one…"

_Oh god, not this is again…_

"Mom…."

"Grandchildren, dear. One wants to have them while one is still young enough to pick them up."

"Mom…"

"Do you remember that nice young man from our old neighborhood? Couldn't I just give him your contact information -?"

"_Mom!_ Don't you dare!" She pointed her knife for emphasis. "I am too busy to deal with that kind of crap!"

Her mother put her hands up in the air in surrender. "All right dear, just put down the cutlery … slowly…"

They both laughed, and the tension dissipated.

"But really, Alma. You know there's more to life than just work."

"Hm."

"Even your father knew that."

"Ooh, now you're just not playing fair." Alma speared piece of lettuce with her fork. "And are you suggesting I need a man to make my life complete?"

"You know I'm not. I'm suggesting you need a _life _to make your life complete. Meaning, a life outside of the political sphere."

"I'll put in the on my agenda." She tried to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. "Did I mention that Snow was watching us the whole time?"

"Yes you did, dear. Twice. Well, three times, now."

"Oh." Alma blinked. "Well … I better get going." She brushed the napkin across her face and stood up, leaning over to plant a kiss on her mother's cheek. "Thank you for lunch, and thanks for forgiving me for being late. See you later."

"Be careful, darling," her mother called after her as she dashed out of the restaurant.

"Always am," Alma called back.

"No you're not," the older woman said, frowning at her plate, speaking too softly for her daughter to hear.

But yes, all in all, despite her mother's reticence, it had been a good day.

Alma finds herself in the rose gardens at dusk. One of the perks of working for the government and living in the Presidential Palace is having access to this place. This are surely no gardens more beautiful in all of Panem. She can hardly be unaware of the President's preoccupation with roses, but she thinks these gardens speak to something different, something more… intimate than he displays in his public persona. Maybe it's because instead of just overseeing the care of these flowers, he so often attends to them himself, from simple things like cutting and pruning to more complicated endeavors like seeding and planting. It must be a respite from all the twists and turns of political maneuvering, and the time and the effort and the pride taken in cultivation shows, for the gardens are simply magnificent. Every variety and color of rose you could imagine, and the sweet scents on the breeze that could almost make you giddy…

There are those who say – well, whisper, really – that President Snow is ruthless, emotionless, cold, controlling. And those observations are hardly invalid.

What she finds … intriguing, however, is that a man with such attributes could nurture such beauty. It speaks to a certain level of … well, tenderness, even passion, which would certainly be at odds with –

"Miss Stone. Good evening."

She starts guiltily, like a child caught up past her bedtime. She tries to will herself not to blush, not wanting him to read any hint in her face as she turns that she was contemplating him on such a personal level. She should never have let her thoughts stray in that direction anyway; she's here to succeed him, not speculate on the inner workings of his psyche…

"Good evening, sir," she says softly, with what she hopes is a polite smile.

His own smile is more enigmatic.

"Are you enjoying the gardens?"

"Of course," she answers automatically. "It's very kind of you to share them with your staff."

He looks amused now. Certainly, he's not used to being described as kind. "You are fond of roses, then?"

"No, not especially … until now, I suppose."

He chuckles. "Oh come now, Miss Stone. That's a sycophant's answer. And haven't we discussed how you should be honest with me?"

"It's not lying to say your gardens are stunning." And they are. With the roses and the sunset and the cleaning cooling air, she feels more at her ease, more open with him. She takes a deep breath. "It's … I like it here," she says, with a little half-laugh at herself for her simplicity.

He seems to understand she's being sincere. His expression suddenly seems less calculated, warmer than she's ever seen. "Do you have a favorite type of rose?" He asks. His tone is light, conversational.

She glances around her. There are of course white roses, and red ones, pink, yellow, orange, and certainly more unusual colors, like shades of purple, even blue, some others with more elaborate varies of color and patterns…

"Not exactly."

He raises a brow at her.

"I mean, "she says, beginning to feel flustered for some reason, "That is, I think I'd most like roses that were, well … like that." She indicates the sky, which is streaked with the colors of dusk. She turns, not wanting to see his expression. What nonsense is she talking, and why can't she stop? But the words continue.

"I'd like to hold the sunset in the palm of my hands."

There is his laughter again, behind her, soft but not mocking. "How poetic."

She bites her lip. "And now you must think I'm foolish."

"Not at all. The desire to hold the sunset … I'd expect no less for a young woman of such ambition."

She finds herself smiling. "Ambition. I take you find that to be a desirable quality?" Her face flushes as she realizes what she just said. She hadn't meant it to come out like that!

"In someone possessing such grace and intelligence as you, indeed I do. Ambition is a potent thing … oh dear." He peers at her. "Have I made you blush again? Does it always happen so easily?"

_No. No it does not. Only when I am around you … _"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says. "It's quite becoming." This of course only makes her blush more, but somehow, she's not quite as embarrassed as she thought she would be, and when he laughs, she laughs with him.

"Oh, you don't play fair."

"No. I do not." This time, his smile shows teeth, and she feels the barest hint of shiver go down her spine, a thrill …. Excitement? Or something. Or something.

"Good night, Miss Stone."

"Good night, sir." And with that, he leaves her to the gardens.

After she's sure he's gone, she sits down heavily on one of the benches, feeling suddenly dizzy, probably from all the competing, if pleasant, scents of roses … or from the rush of blood to her head.

Well, she supposes she didn't make too much of a fool out of herself, at that. And to her surprise, she actually appreciated talking to him like … well, like a person. Instead of debating for him, or sparring with him, their conversation had been simple, enjoyable. She had found herself drawn in by his sense of humor, his slightly teasing manner, the intelligence and understanding in his eyes.

Alma knows how to be polite, but there aren't many people whose company she actually relishes.

Her heart beats faster, thinking about it. He's very…

Well, she tells herself sternly, she's not here to talk about roses and sound poetic, she's here to impress him and learn from him and rule after him. And she's going to change the things that need changing, like the Hunger Games for one, oh yes, he hopes she doesn't think he's forgotten about that, why _should _people have to die after all, and her father always said those in the districts should be better treated by the Capitol, and yes she's ambitious but she's not doing it for herself, well not _just _for herself, she does have_ some_ nobler aims, some reforms in mind…

She stands up, touches the rose nearest to her, a white one, running her thumb over the smoothness of a petal. She can still feel the flush of heat on her skin

_It's quite becoming_, he had said …

Then she shakes herself, as if from a dream, and makes her way back to her room.


	5. Chapter 4

Blood Roses

Chapter Four: Complications

Things have gotten more interesting.

For starters, she's getting more responsibility at work. Antonia seems to be relying on her increasingly, even passing over more senior staff members for assignments, giving Alma more and more responsibilities, even a little autonomy. Sometimes, Alma worries it might breed resentment among her colleagues, most of whom have been there far longer than her, but they all seem to like Antonia as much as she does, and to trust her judgement. It's a little intimidating, but it's also exhilarating, to be writing some of the speeches for the President himself…

She wonders if he knows where the words are coming from ….

The only down side is she hasn't gotten to spend as much time with her mother, and more than once, she feels a twinge of guilt. Which is why, before she knows it, she's asking her mother to come to the ball at the conclusion of the Victory Tour for the 46th Annual Hunger Games, even though Alma knows she'll probably try to pair her up with someone. The general consensus seems to be that the Games were rather pedestrian this year (maybe someone let that unimaginative clod Gaius have too much of a hand in the planning) but even so, every still looks forward to "the party of the year." _Including my mother._

Professionally at least, things are coming along for Alma nicely.

But personally, her life is kind of … nonexistent.

Not that she minds, of course.

Well, except for …

Quite often these days, Alma has found herself spending what precious little free time she now has in the rose gardens. And well, why shouldn't she? They're very … pleasant.

And if President Snow spends his time there as well, then so much the better. After all, she's trying to stand out, to catch his attention, to make herself invaluable, to become a political power, a worthy successor.

Only …

Only, she sometimes seems to forget all that and just starts_ talking_ with him, like she did the first time.

She doesn't mean it to happen, but somehow it does. It's not like there's anyone here she can really talk to, not even Antonia, but somehow, she finds it easy to speak to him. She even finds herself speaking sometimes, about more personal matters, like her father.

President Snow is familiar with him, of course. Her father's job had been about coordinating the infrastructure that binds the Districts to the Capitol, from Peacekeepers to produce. It was an important job, but one that kept him away from home much of the time, though Alma always recalled him being warm and attentive to herself and her mother when he was there.

"Did it bother you? That he was gone so much?" President Snow had asked. It had been on the tip of her tongue to give some stock response about how she had been nothing but proud that her father had been serving the power and glory of the Capital, but looking into those penetrating blue eyes of his, she had found herself unable to give anything but an honest answer.

"Sometimes," she had admitted softly. "I … I missed him, you know? When he was gone. Ever since I was small, we could always talk about … anything."

"But you had your mother."

She had smiled ruefully. "Yes, but we tended to butt heads far more than my father and I did. At least when he was around, I had a buffer. I mean, don't get wrong," she had added hastily. "I love my mother too, it's just … it's different. The dynamic is different between a mother and a daughter."

"Hm." He had seemed contemplative. "Unfortunately, that is a dynamic my daughter will never know."

She had been silent for a moment, considering. It had been the first time he had mentioned anything so … personal, and she had felt if she said the wrong thing, the delicate balance between intimacy and formality between them could be … toppled.

"I … I can see how that must be difficult. I know you both must miss her very much."

He had shaken his head with an almost bitter smile. "You don't have to be so polite, Miss Stone. The whole country knows that my marriage was a political match. As for my daughter … how can she miss what she never had?" For his wife had died in childbirth, as everyone knew but pretended not to remember, just as everyone had pretended not to remember how the marriage had been arranged.

"But surely you must have felt … something … for her?" The question is out before she can stop it.

He had given her a sharp glance, and Alma had been very worried that she stepped over the line.

Then his expression had softened. "Of course I did. She was a good woman, and had far more intelligence and strength in her than I realized when we were first married. I took … rather too long to realize it, actually." She had never heard him express regret before, and she almost held her breath, hardly daring to believe he would disclose such an intimate detail of his life to her. "But in all honesty, when I think of her being gone, I feel far more regret over that fact for my daughter's sake than I do for my own. Though I did try to let her know how much I appreciated her, in the end."

He had fallen silent then, and Alma, somehow feeling profoundly grateful that he had seen fit to confide in her so, was loathe to interrupt his introspective mood. For just a moment, she had experienced the absurd urge to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but had quickly thought better of it, and had quietly excused herself, leaving him alone to his thoughts, though their conversation had stayed with her.

It stays with her still.

More than she would care to admit, she has to force herself to focus on the work at hand, and shake herself out of contemplations about him. She tells herself that it's to be expected; after all, how can the most powerful man in the country not hold a fascination for her, the man whom she hopes will take her on as his protégé? And if she finds herself thinking about him on a more… personal level, well, what's wrong with that? Shouldn't she know what makes a president tick, before she becomes one herself?

And so what if she likes talking with him? So what if they had spent hours debating the merits and drawbacks of the philosophy espoused in _The Prince_ by Machiavelli? ("No sir, I don't think it's better to be feared than loved!") He's intelligent, there's no denying that. He challenges her, and she likes to think she challenges him right back.

And besides, she finds she rather enjoys the sound of his voice. There's, well, a certain _richness_ to it, that's very … appealing.

Alma is glad she is alone, as she suddenly feels her face grow warm. Well, at least she hasn't blushed in front of _him _in quite a while, anyway.

She finishes her work for the day and calls her mother, who delightedly accepts her invitation. She hangs up quickly before her mother can ask her what she's going to wear.

Which is a good question, come to think of it.

Alma may not care as much about fashion as the typical Capitol girl, but this an important event, a place to see and be seen. Usually, she is content to wear black, but then, she wore it last year – has it really been a year already? _Time flies when you're climbing the political ladder._

In the end, she chooses a dress in a deep shade of blue. It's a bit more revealing than what she usually wears, but still elegant.

She has her hair put in a stylish up do, and surveys herself in the mirror critically, adding only a pair of earrings, and taking a deep breath. She hopes the bare arms and the plunging neck line aren't too much…

When the party starts, she begins to regret her choice of outfit. It's not that anyone looks at her askance – her mother assures her she looks beautiful – but Gaius Aquinas, apparently already drunk, cannot seem to maintain eye contact with her in even during the few tersely polite pleasantries they exchange, because his eyes are glued to her cleavage continuously. Oh, and she had been so enjoying the fact that he didn't seem to want her anymore …

At least it's a very large gathering, giving her ample opportunity to stay away from him. Her mother, surprisingly, does not try to get to dance with any "nice young men," and in fact, seems a little distracted and tired. When Alma presses her, she insists that it's nothing, but even so, Alma sticks with her mother for most the evening, which is apparently a successful deterrent to the men around her, even Gauis. It's only when her mother excuses herself to "freshen up" that Alma finds herself alone, content enough to watching the dancing couples.

It's then that she realizes President Snow is dancing with his daughter.

She feels herself smiling. The President doesn't always mingle with his guests, but Alma can just imagine the now-16-year-old Cassia persuading him to come down from the balcony and dance with her. And for a man whom everyone thinks is cold, she can so clearly see how much his daughter means to him, the affection and pride in his eyes. She feels a sharp pleasure mixed with pain, for she can remember herself being the same age and dancing with her own father at her first "grown-up party."

For just a moment, she misses him so much she could almost cry.

Her attention is soon diverted when the dance ends. After Snow goes off to talk to some of the other political elite, the Victor of the 46th Annual Hunger Games, a handsome young man of 17, makes a beeline for the President's daughter. Alma can tell that he's drunk, as much off of the opulence of the festivities as from alcohol consumption, and before long, he's charming the girl, taking her hand, then whispering her ear, probably something about how they should go somewhere more private…

Alma strides over to them, having taken note of these developments just a fraction of moment before Snow and his guards had (and they're damn lucky she did!). "Hello Cassia," she says loudly, deliberately drawing attention to them. The young woman regards her with barely concealed indignation at her intrusion, but the boy, more worldly-wise, seems to sober up immediately.

"Congratulations on your victory." She smiles blindingly at him, taking his arm, leading him away from Cassia. She doesn't look back, but she knows President Snow is moving in, having some quiet but very sharp words with his daughter.

"Thanks," the boy mutters sheepishly.

"After how hard you fought in the Arena, it would be a shame to see you throw your life away." She keeps her tone light, but they both know how deadly serious she is.

"I don't know what got into me."

"About a quart of liquor, for starters."

"I didn't mean to drink so much! I was just so nervous, and they kept going around with the glasses, and I thought it would help me …" He ducks his head, seemingly suddenly younger, and she feels a surge of guilt for what they have put him through.

"She's nice, you know."

"What? Cassia?"

"Yeah. I mean, gorgeous too, obviously, but really just nice, and sweet, and I just wanted … everyone here is so much older than I am, and it was just nice to talk to somebody my age that I didn't have to kill."

His shoulders slump then, and Alma suddenly feels sick. _It's not right. The Hunger Games are not right. He's so young and so scarred, it's not fair._

"I'm sorry."

For a moment his mouth twists in a bitter smile. "Sure you are. And … you're nice too." He takes a few stumbling steps, half-sobbing, caught somewhere between contempt and hysteria. "Everyone is just so damn _nice_ to me now that I'm a killer…"

He ends up on his knees, vomiting, while Alma discreetly indicates to one of the Avoxes what she needs.

When the boy comes back to himself, she hands him two tablets. "Here. It'll settle your stomach." He takes them gratefully.

"Now, I want you to follow him." She nods, indicating the Avox. "He'll get you cleaned up and send you back out when you're ready. And I don't want you to drink anything except water of coffee for the rest of the night, okay?" He seems to understand.

"Thanks," he says weakly. "I mean really, thanks, lady. You saved my ass." He attempts a weak smile.

"And hey, if you see Cassia, tell her I'm sorry okay? Tell her I'm sorry if I got her in trouble…" he calls back as he's led off by the Avox.

Alma turns away and attempts to compose herself. His gratitude almost makes her feel worse, somehow. "Poor kid," she mutters, as she makes her way back to the festivities.

When she returns, Cassia is already gone. No doubt her father sent her to bed. The mood in the room in subdued, and it takes a few moments for the buzz of conversation to work its way back up to the normal level. Everyone is relieved the music starts playing again.

She finds President Snow standing by her side, his expression unreadable. "That was deftly handled, Miss Stone. I'm grateful."

She doesn't look at him. "Don't be too hard on the child."

"To which child are you referring?"

"Both of them, I guess."

"They were … defiant."

"They're young. And he had too much too drink. He regrets his …defiance … deeply." _So please don't have him killed._

"Hm. I wish I could say the same for Cassia."

Despite the gravity of her thoughts, Alma finds herself smiling. "Yes, but at 16 she's pretty much genetically programmed to defy her father."

This draws a reluctant smile from him as well. "Are you saying that at 16, _you_ behaved in such a fashion with your father?"

"Oh, me? No." She meets his gaze now, almost smirking. "I was a model of daughterly obedience, always."

This actually draws a chuckle from him, and she can sense the danger is past.

"Well, I'm sorry you're bereft of your dancing partner, sir."

"I can think of a way to rectify that." He holds out his hand.

Alma blinks, and her heart thuds in her chest as she realizes what is happening.

She takes his hand, and they walk onto the dance floor.

She puts her arm on his shoulder, and his arm encircles her waist as if it is the most natural thing in the world. She feels light-headed, and almost wonders if she has drunk too much herself. _He could have had that boy killed_, she reminds herself, but somehow, the thought doesn't repulse her, because it wasn't about political maneuvering, it was about protect his daughter, even though the impulse was an extreme reaction. It is rather perversely breathtaking, how he can be so deadly at one moment and then smiling and laughing with her the next, how strange it is, how intriguing, how many contradictions can a man hold inside himself?

"You are not blushing, Miss Stone."

"Did you expect me to?"

"Well, it's been so long since you did, and I have found myself looking forward to it." As if by his command, she feels her face grow warm, and controls herself with effort.

"Ah, there it is. It's as becoming on you as I remembered."

"I'm going to get you back for that, you know." She can't believe she made such a threatening statement, even in jest, but he looks pleased, not disconcerted.

"Oh, I sincerely hope so."

Their dance ends too quickly for her liking. But when he lets go of her, she mutters something about having to go check on her mother, and quickly scurries off, aware of the eyes on her.

She finds her mother sitting at a table, holding her head.

"Mom? You okay?"

She looks up, smiling brightly. "Oh yes, dear! Just rather tired."

"You want me to take you home?"

"Oh no, I've already called for a ride." Her mother suddenly seems more focused. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your good time."

"Mom…"

"Strange, I seem to remember you saying you didn't enjoy dancing…"

"Mom, he asked me. I couldn't very well refuse!"

"So you didn't enjoy it?"

"Well I mean, it was … nice… you know."

"Indeed." Her mother clasps her hand. "Be careful, darling."

"Be careful of what?"

"Just … be careful."

"I … come on. I'll walk you to the car."

Before she steps into the car, her mother hugs her. "I love you, Alma."

"I love you too. And I'll be careful, I promise."

"I hope so."

Alma wonders if she should go back to the party or just go to bed. These things can go on until very late in the evening, and she finds herself feeling exhausted for the twists and turns her emotions have taken in the course of just a few hours.

She's still debating when someone slams into her and pushes her against the wall. The stench of alcohol breath overwhelms her as she is confronted with the drunken face of Gaius Aquinas.

"Get your hands off me!" She snarls at him, trying to wriggle free, but for a drunk man, his grip is surprisingly strong.

"If you want to place the Ice Queen honey, you shouldn't dress like this."

"How dare you –"

"Oh come off it, you've been flaunting yourself all night –"

She knees him in the stomach, and he finally lets her go, staggering back. She wishes she got him in the groin.

"You're drunk, Gauis. Go sleep it off or I'll call the guards!"

"Oh, now I get it."

"Get what?"

"I should have known. 'There is written her fair neck round about, _Noli me tangere_, for Caesar's I am, and wild for to hold, though I seem tame.'"*

"What the hell are you talking about?" He doesn't answer, just smirks at her drunkenly. "Get out of my sight!" She orders, as if she in charge already, and he slinks off.

When she realizes she's shaking, she is angry – at herself, at Gaius, at the whole damn Capital.

It's time to go to bed.

But in the morning, her mood is considerably lighter, and she wakes up to a pleasant scent.

When she opens her eyes, the first things she things she sees, on her bedside table, are roses.

That in itself wouldn't be surprising. There are of course roses throughout the Presidential Palace, including in the staff rooms.

But these aren't white roses or even red ones.

These … these are the roses she imagined, the ones she spoke of to _him_.

They are sunset roses. There's no other way to describe them. And they are beautiful.

Alma slides out of bed and reaches for the roses. The petals are silky-smooth…

There's a card. She opens it.

_So you can hold the sunset in the palm of your hand._

She cannot keep the smile from her face, cannot stop the giddy feeling from rising in her stomach, even as she tells herself it's ridiculous, to be so pleased over … they're just _flowers!_

Aren't they?

Alma goes through the rest of the day in a haze, her mind only half on her work. And at dusk, she automatically makes her way to the gardens without even thinking about it, knowing he will already be there.

"Good evening, Miss Stone."

"Sir." Why can't she catch her breath? "I … I … thank you, for the roses. You didn't have to do that…"

He turns to her for smiling. "Oh, but I did. You see, up until last night, it was the only way I could think to make you blush again."

And of course she blushes again, right on cue, and she lowers her head, letting her hair fall in a curtain over her face, biting her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. How can he have such a profound effect on her?

"Oh now, don't hide it from me." And then he's there, right in front of her, brushing the hair away from her face, tilting her chin up so that she has to meet his gaze. "You wouldn't deny me such a simple, exquisite pleasure, would you?"

She can't speak. She's practically swaying on her feet. She leans towards him…

Suddenly, one of the presidential guards is there, speaking in low, urgent tones to President Snow.

He excuses himself, leaving Alma standing there in a daze.

It takes her several moments to get ahold of herself.

"What I am doing?"

How much of a fool has she made of herself this time? What must he think of her and her … blushes, her practically swooning like a besotted schoolgirl at his touch? She came here to be taken seriously, not to be … to be what?

To be …desired?

And to desire in turn?

"_Noli me tangere_," she whispers.

But the problem is, she very much wants him to touch her again.

*From the poem, "Whoso List to Hunt," by Thomas Wyatt. This is believed to have been written about Anne Boleyn around the time when King Henry VIII began to take a romantic interest in her.


	6. Chapter 5

Blood Roses

Chapter Five: Triumphs and Tragedies 

"Alma, could you come in here please?"

She closes the file she was working on and enters the office of her boss, Antonia Agrippa. She tries to put aside a sudden sense of dread, squaring her shoulders and lifting her head. She always does her best, of course, but she's been trying extra hard to focus on her work lately. That hasn't left much time for leisure activities, like say … visiting the rose gardens.

Truth be told, she's been avoiding them, ever since…

"Close the door behind you."

"What's this about?"

"Please, have a seat." Antonia gestures to the chair, but Alma remains standing, giving the other woman her best impassive stare.

"I prefer to remand standing, if you don't mind."

Antonia seems almost amused, shaking her head, but she does not ask Alma to sit down again.

"Well then, I'll get right to it: I'm retiring."

"You're … what?" Alma blinks. This was the last thing she expected.

"Yes, I decided it's the right time for me to step down."

"_You _decided?" Alma asks before she thinks to stop herself.

Antonia's lip twist in an ironical smile. "Well, let's just say I was … persuaded it would be the best decision." There's a note of bitterness in her voice. "I don't suppose you can imagine who's been tapped to take my place."

"Me."

"Naturally." She doesn't sound angry at Alma, just tired. In a way, that's almost worse. Antonia tilts her head. "I thought you would be pleased, Alma. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" There is a distinct hint of mockery in her tone, but for the most part, she seems genuinely curios about Alma's reaction.

"Yes, but not … not like this."

"Like what?" Antonia says, almost contemptuously, but in the face of the younger woman's pained expression, she feels her hostility fade to nothing.

"Oh Alma, don't look at me like that. In time, I would have seen the position went to you anyway. And no, you're not getting the job because he wants to sleep with you. Although of course, he _does _want to sleep with you."

Alma's face flushes red. "I don't know what you're talking about –"

Antonia sighs. "Of course you don't. But I wouldn't worry, at least not about that part of it. He's not the sort of man who makes decisions based on his … emotions."

Alma looks down, trying to compose herself. "Antonia, I … haven't … _done anything_ with him! And I didn't … I didn't come here to …"

"Sleep your way into power?" Antonia moves from behind her desk and puts an arm around the younger woman's shoulder. "I know you didn't."

"But is that what people think?"

"I don't know. I certainly don't. Look Alma, whatever people think, you're going to have an uphill battle here. My staff is loyal, but not all of them will follow you just because I tell them to. You're going to have to earn their trust, their respect."

"And you think I can?"

"I have every confidence in you." Alma had not realized just how much she had come to care for Antonia until this moment.

"And as for the other matter, well … look at me. Alma, look at me."

Alma meets her gaze. "I've worked with Snow for a long time, you know. And I think I've come to know him as well as anyone could claim to."

"You mean – you and him –?"

"What?" Antonia actually laughs. "Oh no – god, no! Some men are … well, slaves to their appetites, to be blunt. And whatever else you can say of him, he's certainly never been that. In fact, I always thought he didn't have any appetites to speak of, at least not for anything besides power … until I saw the way he looks at you."

"Antonia –"

"And then of course, there's the way you look at him."

"I'm not some besotted school girl, you know!"

"I know that, Alma. But you're young. Very young."

"So what are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is … I like you. Be careful."

Impulsively, Alma hugs Antonia, and when they pull back, they both laugh at themselves for tearing up a little. They are going to miss each other's company.

"Now," Antonia says, composing herself, "Let me outline your new responsibilities…"

Dusk, evening, and Alma makes her way to the rose gardens.

She has to, of course.

It's not like she has any other choice.

He's already there, gazing out at the setting sun. She stands beside him but does not look at him.

"Are you pleased with your new appointment, Miss Stone?"

"Well actually, I'm concerned it's a bit … premature."

"Are you saying you're not up to the task?" His gaze is still on the horizon.

"Of course I'm up to it! But Antonia doesn't deserve this, to be ousted before her time."

"You will decline the position then, for her sake? Well, if you do, I supposed I will have to let her stay on… How noble of you, my dear, to throw away your political future for the sake of a friend. At least, some people would call it noble … I'd call it disappointingly stupid and short-sighted, but I'm sure others will laud your selflessness." She doesn't have to look at him to know he's smirking.

"You _know_ I won't do that."

"Of course you won't." He chuckles. "Ambition. Always such an attractive quality."

In that moment, she musters all her strength, and turns to face him.

"I didn't come here to be attractive. I came here to be taken seriously." She looks him straight in the face, using her best impassive expression.

"Indeed. Tell me, do you practice that face in the mirror? A poker face, I believe some would call it."

"As a matter of fact, I do." Her expression does not change.

"Hm. It's very good." He moves closer to her, reaches out, trails a finger down her cheek. She lowers her eyes and wills herself to be stone.

"You will not blush for me?"

She looks back up and meets his gaze coolly. "Not today."

He leans in and puts his lips to her ear. "Another time then, my dear," he whispers, and she shivers. Then he turns, and walks away, leaving her trembling and trying desperately to maintain her façade of indifference towards him.

Antonia was right about the staff. No one is openly hostile, but there are bound to be some bad feelings. After all, the majority of them have been working here far longer than she has, and she can only imagine it's galling to take orders from someone who is not only half your age but doesn't even have one tenth of your experience.

They have a farewell party of sorts for Antonia, and the next day, she gathers them all around and makes a little speech. She acknowledges how much they have done, how several among them are probably more qualified than her to be the new Minister of Affairs, but she also says that she couldn't turn down such an honor and an opportunity, and that she feels privileged to work with them all and have the benefit of their experience. She emphasizes her respect for Antonia and her trust in them because they are Antonia's people, appointment by her, and they won't the Ministry look bad even if they don't like Alma, because they are "far too professional for that." She had practiced the speech last night in a conversation with her mother, who seemed rather distracted, although she did muster up congratulations at Alma's sudden promotion. When she's settled in, she really needs to make some time to talk to her mother, she gets the feeling there's something she's not telling her. She's been almost … reticent lately, always seeming busy when Alma calls, always saying she's "with friends."

It has crossed her mind that her mother may be having an affair.

Well, not really "an affair." She shouldn't think of it that way. Alma had never doubted her parents' love for each other, but her father has been dead for almost ten years, she can hardly hold it against her mother if she's moved on. Though she does have this small, irrational feeling of anger when she thinks of her mother being with another man, as if she's somehow being disloyal to her father's memory, but really, that's ridiculous, and childish. If someone loses their spouse, are they expected to remain alone for the rest of their lives? It's perfectly acceptable to move on after a time, especially if it's been a long time, and it's only "an affair" if someone is married.

Isn't it?

In any case, her mother's romantic life, if any, is none of Alma's business. Frankly, if she is involved with someone, Alma should be happy for her. And maybe she'll be too busy to stop setting Alma up with "nice young men."

She doesn't have time for such nonsense.

A few months into her tenure as Minister of Affairs, Alma feels she's making progress. She learned a lot from Antonia, but she also has her own style of leadership, and she has incorporated her own way of doing things with minimal disruption to the office. She is fairly certain that her staff members at least respect her, and some of them may actually like her. They do not fear her, but fear was never an emotion she had hoped to inspire, no matter how many times President Snow had lectured her about it.

"If you want to be liked, Miss Stone, perhaps you should consider a different career path. Politics is not a popularity contest," he had told her.

"Do you really think fear is the only way to motivate people, sir?"

"No, but it's the most efficient way. Fear is the most primal of emotions. It's based on the survival instinct that dwells within all of us."

"And desire doesn't enter into it at all?"

"That depends on what you mean by desire."

"Desire to work together towards a common goal. To build a community. Even a desire please, to curry favor, to get one over on someone else."

"Ah … desire in all its aspects then, both the noble and the selfish. That is what you are speaking of. I grant you, desire can be an effective tool if wielded properly … but fear is still stronger."

"Do you really think it's better to be feared than to be loved? Better to be hated than to be desired?"

"Well, I suppose in some cases, it might be better to be desired, but that would depend."

"On what?"

"On who was doing the desiring, of course."

She had blushed then, as he must have known she would. She had gotten better at controlling her emotions, but she couldn't always stop herself from blushing for him.

And what's more, she didn't always want to.

But she has had little time for that sort of thing since taking over for Antonia. Ironically, while she spends more time with President Snow now than she ever has before, they have very little time for any private conversation. He expects her to perform her duties as well as Antonia did, despite her lack of experience, and she won't let him see that she's anything but equal to the task. She is twice as busy as she ever was, and happy to be so, happy to meet challenges and face them, happy to conquer all obstacles in her path, happy to climb, climb, climb, earning favor, earning respect, earning a reputation for intelligence and efficiency, for strength and professionalism, to balance out any rumors that people like Gaius Aquinas may be spreading.

Come to think of it, she hasn't seen Gaius lately. In fact, she realizes she hasn't seen him at all since the end of the Victory Tour. When she does a little digging, she learns that he was fired, and apparently slunk of quietly to bear the disgrace. It's a weight off her shoulders, and she quickly forgets about him, and what he said (she will not think about him again until years later, with frightening clarity). One less thing to worry about.

Sitting at Antonia's desk (she still can't think of it as _hers_ quite yet), Alma feels tiredness creep into her bones. It's late, and she is the only one left working; she has sent the rest of the staff home for the day, and she's debating whether she should call it a night herself, crawl into bed, fall asleep inhaling the pleasant scent of the sunset roses that are still on her bedside table…

"Miss Stone."

Alma nearly jumps out of her seat. No wonder she was thinking of roses. It's him, of course. How did he move so quietly she didn't even hear his approach? Naturally, she feels her face grow warm.

"I didn't mean to startle you." He looks highly amused at her reaction.

_Of course you did_, she wants to snap, but she's not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she really is. "Not at all. Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

"I think you have already done it, my dear."

_Damn you_. "Are you saying you came here just to make me blush?"

"It's a simple enough entertainment…" She feels a sudden surge of anger towards him then. He's toying with her, he's always toying with her, she's working so hard to prove herself, and it's all just a game to him!

"Is that what I am to you? A simple entertainment?" He seems taken aback by the bitterness in her tone, but recovers quickly.

"Of course not. Why would you think that?" His voice is suddenly so soft and gentle that she feels like she could just … _melt_. She hates, hates, _hates_ that he is able to do this to her! She bites her lip.

"I don't want to be a joke."

He raises a brow. "Who says that you are?" He doesn't add, _Tell me so I can have them killed_, but she can tell from his tone that it's what he means. How can his voice go from gentle to deadly in a single breath?

"People think … that I'm only here because you want …" She can't finish.

He sighs. "And that my dear, is the problem with your style of leadership. It involves caring far too much about the opinions of those who are beneath you. And just what is it that _people _think I want?"

She looks up at him then. She can't speak.

"I suppose a more important would be, what is it that _you _think I want?"

"I …"

"And perhaps the most important question: What do _you _want, Alma?"

He's never used her first name before. She likes the sound of it on his lips. She likes it very much. She wants him to say it again.

And he does.

"Alma, come here."

She gets up from behind her desk and walks over to him so that they are standing face to face. She lets out a little gasp when he touches her, caressing her face, then toying with the loose strands of her hair. She slides her arms around his shoulders and feels his other arm snake around her waist, drawing her closer…

The sound of the electronic ping startles both of them. "Incoming message from Atrium Hospital," the computer's impersonal voice informs her.

She whirls around, moving out of his embrace. "Hospital?"

A face she doesn't recognize appears on the screen. "Are you the next of kin for Luciana Stone?"

Alma feels all the air leave her body. "Yes … what … why? What's wrong with my mother?"

"You need to come here right now."

The next few moments are a blur in her mind. She must have said something to him, he must have murmured something comforting, must have put in the fastest vehicle and sent along an armed guard. She doesn't remember the doctor's face, hears only a few of the words, the words like daggers, _cancer, terminal_, and most awful of all, _we thought you knew_. Later, she will learn that her mother had been sick for quite some time, and had been managing and hiding her condition very well until recently. Later, she will understand her mother's recent fatigue and lack of communication with chilling clarity and berate herself for being too busy to notice the signs.

But the thing that remains horrifyingly, devastatingly clear, is that when she arrives, she is too late.

Too late to ask questions. Too late to demand answers. Too late to be angry, or ask forgiveness, or to make entreaties.

Too late to say goodbye.


	7. Chapter 6

Blood Roses

Chapter 6: Solace

Time passes in a blur.

The paperwork is dealt with, the arrangements are made. She receives condolences, including a card from President Snow. Of course she's excused from her duties, temporarily. Several of her parents' old friends and colleagues come out of the woodwork and offer sympathy, some of which might even be sincere. She has the funeral, gives the eulogy, does not know one word of what she is saying. She has her mother buried beside her father, in a plot that was already bought and paid for several years ago.

Morbid or romantic? She doesn't know. She doesn't care.

Not once has she cried.

Not when they let her see her mother's body. So strange to see her still and quiet when she had always been so … so ….

She didn't cry then. Her eyes stung, but she did not cry. She did not speak either. What was the point? It might as well have been an empty room. Her mother was not there anymore.

She did not cry at the funeral. There were dark hollows under her eyes from lack of sleep, but they remained bright and clear and dry.

She did not cry even when she went through her mother's things, dresses, trinkets, pictures of them together as a family, as she sorted out her mother's affairs, shut up their old family house.

It has been days. Or it has been weeks. She doesn't know. She doesn't care.

She hasn't cried. She wants to, but she can't. She would get down on knees and beg if that would make the tears come. She feels … nothing, nothing but this hollow ache in her chest where her heart used to be, and though she has been told to take as much time as she needs, the truth is, she's desperate to go back to work again. When her mother's estate is settled, she is left with nothing to do, and she truly feels that if she doesn't start working again she'll go insane.

So she returns to her job, where everyone is soft-voiced and sympathetic, murmuring condolences and avoiding eye contact. She accepts it numbly, moving mechanically through her day, and when dusk comes, she goes to the gardens, not because she expects to find him there but simply because she can think of no other place that she can stand to be.

He is there, of course. The last time she saw him … it doesn't matter. The excitement she felt seems distant, and ludicrous. Maybe if she hadn't been so caught up in their … whatever it was, if she hadn't been so selfish, she would've realized her mother needed her.

"Alma." His voice is soft and gentle, but for once it has no effect on her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, sir." She answers tonelessly.

He shakes his head. "I don't think you are. Have you been sleeping at all?"

Alma shrugs and looks at the ground.

"Have you cried?"

She looks up at him then, startled. How would he even know to ask that question?

"No, I haven't. My mother is dead, and I haven't she a single tear. Something is very wrong with me." She feels herself begin to shake. She is not warm enough. She will never, ever be warm enough.

"_Nothing _is wrong you. But … you might feel better if you cried."

It begins then, as if she had been waiting for his permission, his approval, his command. She wants to be angry. She blushes when he wants her to, dances when he wants her to, comes to him when he wants her to … but the relief is too overwhelming for her to be anything but grateful. Tears are better, _anything_ is better than that dull hollow ache in the center of her chest that began in the hospital room and never went away … until now.

She feels his arms slip around her, feels him guide her gently with him into a sitting position on the bench, and she clings to him, buries her face in chest, sobs, and confesses.

"I was a terrible daughter… I didn't appreciate … I thought she was silly… thought I was better than her … smarter …. I took her for granted … I looked down on her … I didn't …. I didn't … give her enough… I couldn't even tell her I was sorry … that I loved her!"

"Alma..."

"I didn't even get to say goodbye!" She's near hysterical now, but she doesn't care. "Damn it, she should've told me so I could be there! I'm so mad at her!"

"Of course you are."

"Oh god, I'm horrible –"

"No you're not." He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wipes her face. "Alma, you were _not_ a terrible daughter. All children take their parents for granted. All children think they know better. Don't torture yourself over it."

She sniffles. "I got your shirt all wet."

A soft chuckle. "Don't worry about that either. Come, now."

She leans on him heavily as he guides her back to her room. She is exhausted, so tired that it barely even registers when his lips graze her forehead as they part at her door, and he murmurs that she should get some rest…

Alma wakes up fully clothed and curled up in the fetal position on her bed. The last thing she remembers is staring at it and telling herself she should get changed, or at least pull the covers down.

It appears she did neither.

She shifts and stretches, wondering vaguely how long she's been sleeping. When she checks the time, she finds it's been over 10 hours, which is probably a good thing.

It's then that she realizes she's clutching his handkerchief. Well, of course she is. It's even monogrammed.

She opens her fist and smooths out the fabric. She's not quite sure what to do with it…

It the end, she puts in the drawer, beneath the roses on her bedside table. It seems appropriate.

She practically has to drag herself into the bathroom, but once the water's pouring over her, she feels more awake, alert, refreshed. She feels, in fact, a lot better. The pain is still there of course, fresh and keen, but now she can actually experience it instead of that horrible hollow ache…

And after she's dry and in a fresh set of clothes, she feels that she can actually face another day.

The gardens at dusk. The only place she wants to be. He's sitting on the bench, looking at the fading horizon, and she sits down beside him.

"I don't know how to thank you," she says without preamble, not looking at him.

"There's no need."

"I uh … I still have your handkerchief …"

"Keep it. You may have need of it later."

"I…"

"There's nothing wrong with tears, Alma. They can be very cleansing … or so I've heard." Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a slight twist of his lips, an almost bitter sort of smile.

She looks at him then. "Why are you so good to me?"

"You know why."

She sighs, and leans her head on his shoulder. His arm slips around her. She tucks her leg beneath her and curls into him.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows what will happen. Not now, but soon. They are … inexorable.

He is all she has now, and she simply cannot be without him.HhIHh


	8. Chapter 7

Blood Roses

Chapter 7: Anticipation

Things do get better.

She still misses her mother of course, misses her terribly. She still cries sometimes, but she feels more … in control of herself now, more in control of her grief. She keeps it close to her, and when anyone besides President Snow offers so much as a word of comfort, she merely smiles tightly, thanks them, and tells them she's fine.

She's following his advice.

"You must not let them see your vulnerabilities, Alma. Not your enemies, not even your allies. We all have weaknesses, but there's no reason to expose them to others. Put simply, never let them see you bleed."

"Never let them see you bleed," she repeats the phrase thoughtfully. "I take that's a rule of yours?"

He smiles enigmatically. "My oldest one."

She still spends time with him, of course, and not just in her capacity as Minister. These days, she finds herself caring less about what people think of her relationship with him. Her grief has made several other concerns seem trivial, not the least of which is this one. If people think she is where she is because of some sort of … personal relationship with the President, that's their problem, not hers. She knows that she's good at her job.

But there is one other opinion that might matter to her…

"Hello, Cassia."

Apparently, she isn't the only one who likes to enjoy the rose gardens at dusk.

The young woman, looking out at the setting sun, does not meet her gaze. "He's not here."

"Who?"

A snort, a roll of the eyes, and expression that says, _Oh please. _"He's not here. So you can run along and do," a wave of the hands, "whatever it is that you do."

Alma finds herself laughing, which startles the young woman enough for her to turn around.

"That was very good, Cassia. I don't believe I've ever seen contempt so eloquently expressed. Your father would be proud."

"Oh, are you going to tell him on me?"

Alma's smile fades. "No. But maybe you could tell me something … did he send you here to talk to me?"

"I don't know what you're –"

"So yes, then."

Cassia bites her lip. "He told me to tell you I'm sorry about your mother's death."

"Oh."

"And I am," she says, her features softening. "I mean, really, I am."

"Thank you."

"And he told me to … you know …"

"What? Pretend you don't hate me?"

"I don't hate you."

"But I imagine you don't like me very much, either."

Cassia is silent

"It's okay. Whatever your father said, as far as I'm concerned, you're under no obligation to like me."

Cassia seems to relax a little. At first glance, she does not distinctly resemble her father, but there are certain features and even gestures they have in common. Her eyes, for example, are the same light shade of blue as his, and she has the same ability to direct a piercing gaze at someone with them. Which, at this moment, she does.

"You must miss her a lot. Your mother, I mean."

Alma meets her look evenly, even as she feels her throat grow tight. "Very much."

"I miss mine too," Cassia says. "I mean, even though I didn't know her. I suppose that doesn't make any sense…"

"It makes perfect sense." Alma gestures, and they sit.

"He doesn't talk about her much," Cassia offers. "Does … does he talk about her to you?"

"Very seldom."

"I don't … entirely dislike you, Alma." The girl does not address by her title, but then, she did not really expect her to.

She smiles. "Thank you."

"But this is weird."

"Yes. Definitely weird," she nods emphatically, and they both laugh a little.

"You were right, you know."

"Right about what?"

"That night. The end of the Victory Tour, I shouldn't have…"

"Cassia, you don't have to say this."

The girl shrugs, her expression rueful. "Do you know how many boys I meet that aren't absolutely terrified to ask me out?"

"I'm going to say none."

She sighs. "I imagine when I'm old enough my father will arrange a politically advantageous match," she says in a resigned tone. She is smarter and savvier than Alma has thought to give her credit for, and she won't insult her by contradicting the truth.

"I'm sure he'll consider your feelings on the matter. I'm sure he won't force you into anything." She looks doubtful, and turns her face away from Alma.

"You know… sometimes I just think it would be nice if, when people looked at me, they saw something else besides the fact that I'm _his_ daughter."

"I think that boy did. I think he really liked you," Alma offers impulsively, and Cassia turns to look at her again. "The Victor. I mean, it was a terrible idea, but he did tell me you seemed nice."

"Really? He said that?"

"He did."

"Thank you." And Alma can see why the boy had thought that. When Cassia lets herself be sincere, it can be very endearing.

"You're welcome. Well," she stands up, "I suppose I better go and do … whatever it is that I do."

"Alma…"

"Oh, don't worry about it."

The next evening, she meets Cassia's father in the same spot.

"It went well, I take it?"

"So you're not even going to pretend you didn't set that up?"

"I thought it would be rather pointless to do so." He smiles at her.

"Hm. Well, I think it well, all things considered, for a conversation between a man's daughter and his …"

"What?"

As she looks at him, he reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me, Alma, what label have you chosen to give yourself in relation to me?"

"I … I don't know. What am I to you, anyway?"

"What do you think?"

For an answer, she wraps her arms around him, lays her head on his chest. He holds her tightly, and she sighs. The pull between them has been numbed by her grief, but as she begins to heal, she finds increasingly difficult to deny the strength of their mutual attraction.

What's more, she's not sure why she should.

Time passes; in a few days, the Reapings will happen, and the Hunger Games will begin all over again. Alma feels like she's waiting, and she feels like he is too. There are so many moments, in the time that they spend together, moments that make her tremble in anticipation, expecting to be kissed, but he always seems to stop short of it, and she is not bold enough or sure enough to initiate anything herself. So she waits, and she works, and she goes to the gardens, knowing she couldn't stay away even if she tried.

On one such evening, she finds him tending to the rosebushes. Approaching silently, she studies him with interest. His intelligence has always been undeniable (and attractive), and so much of what he is and what they have in common is tied up in his mental acuity that it is rather fascinating to see him so absorbed in such a simple physical task…

"There's more to it than you might think, Alma," he says, without even glancing up, as though he plucked her thoughts from her head as simply as if they were flowers. It should unsettle her; instead, she feels herself smiling.

"Is there?"

"Come here. I'll show you."

He hands the shears to her and then slips his arms around her, guiding her movements.

"There aren't any thorns," she murmurs, almost to herself.

"They've been genetically engineered that way. None of the roses here have them."

"When did you decide on that?"

"When Cassia pricked her fingers trying to pick some of them for me when she was four."

"That is so … sweet."

The sound of his laughter fills her with warmth. "Oh, my dear … I do not think anyone has ever used that word in connection to me."

She puts her hand on his. "Maybe I see you differently than other people do."

"Hm. How so?"

"Maybe I know you better," she says, surprised at her own daring.

He does not speak, and the impossible thought occurs to her that she may have actually made _him_ feel vulnerable and exposed for once, instead of the other way around. It's both a thrilling and disconcerting concept.

And a moment later, when he begins talking again, instructing her on the finer points of gardening, she's far too distracted by his nearness and his touch to take any of it in.

"Are you listening?"

"No," she admits, and leans back against him. "Are you angry with me?"

"I think I would find it extremely difficult to be angry with you, Alma. Especially at this moment."

His hands settle on her waist, his fingers curling possessively around her hips. His lips at her ear, he says softly, "Tell me, Alma … do you still think the Hunger Games should be abolished?"

She tenses, and he responds, by bring his hands up to her shoulders, kneading the muscles gently until she relaxes again into his embrace.

"Does the question bother you, my dear?"

"No … well … I just wonder why you're asking after all this time…"

"Because I would like you to observe a Reaping for yourself." She turns in his arms then, surprised.

"Really?"

"Yes, in District One."

"So I can … what? See the error of my ways?"

He looks amused. "Something like that."

Given how close they are in this moment, it takes a lot of willpower to say what she does next: "So you'll send me to one of the two districts that actually celebrate the Hunger Games to accomplish that? I might as well just stay in the Capitol for all that would prove. Besides," she adds more softly, "I don't want to be away from …" _You. _"… here."

"You will not accompany me, then?"

"Accompany you? I – I thought you meant –"

"To send you out there by yourself? Of course not."

"But … I mean, are the other cabinet members –"

"No. They don't share your ambivalence towards the Games." She knows that's not the real reason. They both know it, and he's toying with her, as he always does. She gulps.

"So we'd be … alone?"

"Well, if you consider a full security detail _alone_ …" He smiles when she blushes. She wants to be angry with him, but she can't quite manage it. She turns her reddened face away from him, though she stays in his arms.

"When would we leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"You're … not giving me much time to prepare …"

"I'm sure you'll manage. And I think the government can survive for a few days without us."

He heart thuds and her stomach flutters. "Well … well … well all right then," she says, trying to keep her voice from going up an octave. "I suppose I better go … get ready … so … so … good night …" Reluctantly, she detaches herself from him. She walks away from him, quickly and unsteadily, not daring to look back.

This is a terrible idea. This is not what she came here for.

But she cannot stop the smile that stretches across her face, any more than she can stop the thrill of anticipation that keeps her up half the night.

So _this _is what they have been waiting for.

There are surprisingly few arrangements to make. The trip will be by train, and will not be long; two days to get to District One, one day to observe the Reaping and attend some sort of official function in the evening, and then two days to get back to the Capitol. The next evening, when she gets to the train, he is already on board. She makes her way to the dining area, where he is waiting. There are of course roses on the table. But not just one white ones…

Her roses. Sunset roses.

He looks up at her and smiles.

Sometimes, she thinks she is insane for allowing herself to have these sort of feelings for him.

And sometimes, it's all she can do stop herself from …

Well.

So she sits down, and they eat, and they make light, pleasant conversation. She feels some of her nerves dissipating; after all, how different is this really, from being in the Capitol? They've had plenty of private conversations before…

And when she goes to bed, there are sunset roses on her bedside table too, just like in her rooms at the mansion.

Time passes almost too quickly, and then, they are in District One. At first glance, it looks very similar to the Capitol, but the more she looks around, the more subtle differences she sees. There is a level of wealth here – there is where all their luxury items come from, after all – but the grandiosity, the opulence, is not quite up to par. Still, she enjoys looking for the differences, noting the similarities, and before she knows it, they are due to attend the Reaping.

She watches from on high, at his side, amongst local government officials. There is a buzzing in the crowd when they realize President Snow is there – apparently, they were not made aware of this beforehand – and when the Escort calls the name of the female tribute, there are clapping and cheers. She's a tall, wiry-looking girl of about 16, pretty, smiling, looking nervous but excited. But when it's the boys' turn, and the escort calls out a name, Alma feels her heart drop. The boy must be only 12, but he looks younger, and when he smiles, she can tell it's with effort; he looks like he wants to cry.

Before he can make his way up to the stage, however, another young man with similar coloring separates himself from the crowd.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

There is hushed, almost reverent silence, and then, the crowd bursts into applause. The boy looks to be about 17, and can only be the older brother of the boy whose name was called. A few of the other young men around the boy pound him on the back, shouting his name. Volunteers are common in District One (and Two, for that matter), but not like this.

Part of her is moved. And another part of her, a very small, cynical voice in the back of her head, thinks this will make for great television, and wonders if the young boy's selection was not as random as it was supposed to be, according to the official Rules of Reaping.

"You see, they take care of each other here," President Snow says beside her.

She does not look at him. "Too bad it's not the same in every district," she says, but she cannot deny she's impressed, by the young man who volunteered, if nothing else. To become a Tribute, not for the glory and fame of victory, not to bring pride to your district, but to protect the life of someone you love…

Well, that takes someone remarkable. She doubts if she'll ever see anything like it again.

Later, in the evening, the "official function" that they have to attend turns out to be a dance. Well, trust him to spring something like this on her, but she won't let it him see that she's anything but calm.

It reminds her, of course, of the first time she danced with him, the first time she blushed in his arms…

When they are there, she is by his side, being introduced to local politicians and prominent citizens. He guides her through the room. Sometimes his hand is on the small of her back, and sometimes his arm is around her waist, proprietary. She knows he would not do this if they were in the Capitol, that these seemingly small, subtle gestures are a clear sign to everyone here that she is taken, that she is not to be approached by other men.

She tells herself that she should find his casual possessiveness irritating.

She doesn't.

When she dances with him, she finds she doesn't care if there are eyes on them.

"I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed dancing with you, Alma."

She feels impulsive, mischievous. "Would you be jealous if I danced with someone else?"

She has the rare pleasure of surprising him, but it is short lived, because for a moment, he seems almost … hurt.

"Is there someone else that you would prefer to dance with, then?"

"No," she says softly. "No, no one else. I … I suppose I was trying to … tease you. It's just, you do it so often with me, and it throws me off balance, so I thought I'd return the favor. It was stupid. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Alma."

She looks down for a moment. "It's just … sometimes it frightens me, you know."

"What?"

She looks back up at him. "How much you mean to me."

The music ends, and they stop. He holds her gaze for a long moment.

She wonders what would happen right now, if they were not in a room full of other people…

They make their way off the dance floor. They are a few more polite exchanges, and then, he escorts her from the room. When she looks at him, he squeezes her arm reassuringly.

"I have a few things to take care of before we depart. I'll meet you on the train."

"Okay."

His lips graze her forehead, and she shivers with pleasure at the contact. She turns and starts to go, but he calls her back.

"Alma."

She looks at him.

"Sometimes, it …unsettles … me as well. How much you mean to me."

Her mouth drops open as he walks away.

She never, in her entire life, thought she would hear Coriolanus Snow admit, even in a roundabout way, to being afraid.


	9. Chapter 8

Blood Roses

Chapter 8: Possession

"Alma?"

Her eyes flutter open at his voice, at his touch. The last thing she remembers is sitting down on the couch in the train's main compartment, leaning her head on the arm of the chair…

"Hmm … you're back."

"I didn't mean to take so long." He's stroking her hair, and she feels her pulse quicken. "Maybe you should go to bed …"

"No," she says quickly, moving into a sitting position. "I'm awake now."_ Very awake. _"I'm not tired."

"Then what would like to do?" Hi voice is like silk. She doesn't know how he does it, but it just makes her…

She bites her lip.

"Well apparently, you'd like to blush for me." He chuckles. With his hand, he tilts her chin up so he can see her face, so that her eyes meet his. She masters herself with effort and arches a brow, doing her best to look cool and sophisticated instead of besotted with him.

"Would you like to play a game of chess?"

His smile turns predatory. "An excellent idea. I have a set in my quarters. Come."

She takes his hand, and they walk together to his room. Her fingers intertwine with his automatically.

As the door closes, she feels like she's entering a sanctuary. The room reflects him; rich, but understated … her eyes are drawn immediately to the chess set. It's a beautiful one, classic, all gleaming ivory and rich ebony, and she takes a moment to appreciate the workmanship. She picks up a piece, the black queen, feeling the smoothness of it in her hand.

"Lovely."

"Thank you. I was going to ask you to pick your side, but it seems you already have." She smiles and puts the queen back in her place. At his gesture, she sits, and so does he.

"So who moves first?"

"I'll allow you that courtesy, my dear."

It's been a long time since she played – in fact, the last time was when he watched her play with Gauis – but as she always does, Alma loses herself in the beauty of the game. Even the nearness of him can't stop her from becoming completely absorbed in what she is doing…

Though it's not as if she forgets who she's playing with …

"Tell me something, Alma," he says, contemplating his next move, "When did you first start to play?"

"I was very young." She keeps her eyes on the board. "Sometimes I feel like I could play before I could walk. My father taught me."

"Hmm. Well, I think he did a good job."

"Maybe not good enough, if I can't beat you."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I think you're holding your own. And remember Alma, I've had more years of practice… why won't you look at me?"

She's tempted, but still does not take her eyes from the board as his hand hovers near one piece, then the other.

"Because my father always taught me that in chess, concentration is key. He taught me to never let myself be distracted …"

"Good advice. It can be easy to let attention wander, given the right circumstances…"

"Do you speak from experience?"

"Oh no. _I_ can't be distracted." She hears the challenge in his voice and feels a little thrill.

"Can't you?"

Their eyes meet briefly, and he looks amused that she should even think such a thing is possible.

Alma moves from her seat to stand behind him. Leaning down, she lays a hand on his shoulder. His eyes remain on the board.

She moves her hand to the back of his neck, where it makes little circles.

"What is that you're doing to my neck?"

Her hand slows. "Was I doing something to your neck?"

"You know you were."

She leans down then, put her lips to his ear. "Was it bothering you?"

"Oh no, it was quiet pleasant…" Does she imagine it, or does he tense slightly? Can she affect him with her nearness, her touch, as much as he affects her?

She puts her face close to his cheek and blinks, letting her eyelashes brush his skin.

"Alma," he says softly, softly.

He will turn and kiss her now. He will.

"Check."

She opens her eyes, looks at the board, and scowls. She slinks back to her seat, makes a valiant attempt, but in the end, checkmate is inevitable.

"Well," she says, "apparently you _can't _be distracted, after all. Or else I'm just not a very good distraction." Trying not to appear a sore loser, she begins setting the pieces back in place.

"Oh, you're much more than a distraction, my dear. I think you know that by now. And the game was well-played. I don't think I've had anyone present me with such a challenge in quite a long time. And trying to distract your opponent through seduction is a … potentially effective, if unorthodox, strategy. But the danger of it is, if you get too caught up in what you are doing, you may find you're no longer the one doing the seducing."

Alma looks up at him. "Oh? And how would that work, exactly?"

He smiles. "I think you can imagine."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me."

He moves towards her, and she tries to remember to breathe. He slides an arm around her, places his hand flat against the small of her back, as though they are preparing to dance again. With his other hand, he strokes her hair, her shoulder, her neck.

"You're a very beautiful woman, Alma," he says softly, so softly, and she bites her lip to keep from making a sound. "I imagine you know that. But then … beautiful is not quite the right word, is it? Too common. No, I think a better description would be … exquisite. Yes, I think that would be apt. Do you like that?"

"Yes."

He keeps touching her, and every time his fingers brush her skin she can't keep from shivering with pleasure and drawing closer to him.

"Do you know," he says, "It has occurred to me to wonder … in what ways you might most … enjoy being touched." She draws in a sharp breath. "What might most please you … even … excite you …" She can't help it, she actually whimpers. "But just for now … I think I would like it very much if you would just … say my name."

"Coriolanus."

"Oh thank you my dear, thank you." He presses a kiss to her cheek, and she leans into him, practically swaying on her feet. When he pulls back…

When he pulls back, he looks at her, amused.

"And now my dear, I think it is time for you to retire for the evening."

"W-what?"

"You asked for a demonstration. I have provided you with one. I know you're tired. Goodnight, Alma. I'll see you tomorrow."

He was toying with her. Of course. He's _always, always_ toying with her! She was a fool to let him have such power over her…

She is full of anger, full of thwarted desire. But she makes herself cold, makes herself dignified, makes herself stone.

Keeping her face and her tone expressionless, she steps away from him.

"Goodnight, sir."

Then she turns on her heel and stalks out of the room.

She manages to stay on her feet until the doors of her own quarters closes behind her. She gives herself a moment to indulge in her feelings of frustration and anger, and then she sits, catching her breath. She needs to think.

Yes, he likes to toy with her, but she knows their attraction is mutual. So this time, there has to be more to it than that. What was he trying to prove tonight, sending her away?

She hardly has to ask herself before she knows. He was trying to prove that he was the one in control. That he is _always _the one in control.

And if he had to do that, it must mean he felt his control was threatened. That he had made himself vulnerable to her, even if it was only in the slightest and most subtle of ways. She can still remember his reaction when she tried to tease him on dance the floor. She is … she is actually capable of _hurting _him, and that gives her power, power that he doesn't want her to have.

Power. Well, that's what she came here for, isn't it? She'd always intended to get power from him … but not like this, not on a personal level. She never intended to get_ anything _from him on a personal level…

And if she has some small power over him, it's nothing compared to the power he has over her. She has never felt this way about_ anyone_.

Could she stop all this? Could she will herself to be like she just was with him, always: cold, stone? Could she walk away from the personal and go back to the professional, retract the intimacy that has formed between them? Could she stick to her original plan, and be his successor instead of his lover?

And then it occurs to her: Does she have to choose? Why_ should_ she have to choose? Why can't she be both? Why can't she have it all, everything she wants, a private life and a public one? Does she somehow become something less if she is in his bed? Because if all he wanted was a bed warmer, he would have taken her by now, taken her and maybe even already discarded her. But she knows there is much more to them than that.

She wants him. All of him.

She will have what she wants.

The next evening finds her curled up on the couch again in the main compartment, this time with a book. She's trying to concentrate, but she keeps reading the same paragraph over and over, and her focus isn't helped when he enters the room.

"Good evening, sir." She quite pointedly does not look up at him.

"Good evening, Alma." She waits for him to say something further. She won't look at him. She won't. She's going to continue to pretend to read. Let him be the uncomfortable one for once!

"Do you feel like another game of chess?"

She smiles. She closes the book and looks up, finally meeting his gaze.

"Yes, I do."

She follows him to his room, where the chess board is waiting for them.

"You move first this time. It's only fair."

As before, she becomes lost in the game, but things feel different. This time, there are no distractions, no seductions…

And this time, she's knows she is going to win.

"Checkmate."

She looks up and meets his eyes again. It took a long time, but she actually managed to win this game. He does not look upset at being beaten. Quite the contrary, actually.

He looks … proud of her.

"Congratulations, Alma. It's been a long time since someone's defeated me, but I do believe you earned it."

"You didn't let me win, did you?"

His blue eyes pierce her. "Do you think I would do something like that?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "No."

He leans back. "Well, it appears that once again, our evening is at end. Unless you would care for another game…"

"No, but … I want to stay."

"What?"

"I … I want to stay. I want to be with you."

There it is, her desire, laid bare and exposed before him. He couldn't have been unaware of it, but still, it is daunting, declaring herself like this, and facing the possibility, however slight, that he will reject her.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Good." He takes her hand and pulls her up from her chair. Her hair is coiled at the nape of her neck, and he undoes it in one smooth motion, giving a small sigh of satisfaction and it cascades down. Again, his hand is on the small of her back, and again, his lips are at her ear:

"Don't imagine now, Alma, that you are in control of the situation."

"But I am."

"Oh, I think not."

"You think not, hmm? You don't think I'm in control of anything?" She winds her arms around him. "Well, I'm in control of myself, at least."

"We'll see."

He pulls at the top of her dress, almost roughly, so that her bare shoulder is exposed. She shivers when he kisses her there. His lips trail across her collarbone, her neck, her chin, her cheek, and she lets out a little gasp when he just brushes past her lips, kissing his way down the other side, ending at her other shoulder, and then …

And then, he steps back, letting go of her. He looks at her, waiting to see what she will do.

She could walk out right now. Show him how much control, how much power she has.

But she's long past the point of wanting to be the one in control.

So she closes the distance between them, and finally, _finally,_ their lips meet, and then …

And then, she is gone.

What little control she had quickly evaporates. Though she initiated the kiss, he quickly takes control of it, insistent, demanding, and she yields to him instantly. He reaches for the zipper of her dress…

She never imagined it could be like this. She never imagined that she could so willingly give up control to someone else, or how_ good_ it would feel. His touch makes her crazy, makes her reckless, make her cry out helplessly for more. He sets their erratic pace, first moving with aching slowness, then going so fast she can't breathe, can't even get his full name out: "Cori, Cori, _oh_…"

He brings her to the edge once, twice, and finally, the third time, when she's writhing beneath him, practically sobbing in his arms, "Yes – _Please_ – Now –" he brings her to release, and the world explodes with a pleasure so intense it's almost pain.

It seems a long moment before she comes back to herself. She is aware of the pounding of her heart as she tries to catch her breath. Part of her can't believe they just did that.

And another part of her wonders why they waited so long.

"Alma … you're trembling."

"I … I'm alright," she whispers, and leans over to kiss him. "I'm alright, Cori."

"Oh, that's what you're calling me now?"

"Yes, that's what I'm calling you now." She kisses him again. "Get used to it. Oh, I didn't know anything could feel that good." She sighs. Later, she will think of all the complications this could bring. Right now, she can't feel anything but contentment.

"Alma?"

"Hmm?"

"Were you a virgin?"

_Was it obvious? _"Is that relevant?"

"Not really." He strokes her face. "I may be older than you, my dear, but I don't hold to some antiquated notions of female purity. You just seem…"

"What? Inexperienced?"

"I was going to say magnificent."

"Sure you were."

"Alma, I'm not so foolish as to think I'm the first man to want you."

"Well, you're the first man I've wanted back enough to do … this," she admits. She doesn't know how it is in the Districts, but the Capitol has some confusing and contradictory attitudes towards sex. On the surface at least, many people purport to subscribe to the ideal of confining sex to the marriage bed, but then, half the gossip in the Capitol is about who is having an affair with whom. And while no one exactly talks about sex openly, is widely whispered about in corners and contemplated covertly.

Alma has had a few flirtations over the years, some of them ill-advised – a particularly embarrassing crush on one of her father's co-workers when she was a teenager springs to mind – but she has always been too focused on her goals to get involved with someone, and the idea of a one-night stand or a mindless fling just didn't appeal to her.

"Would it matter?" She asks him now. "Would it matter if there had been someone before?"

"Not really. Because whatever happened in the past … you're mine now."

The way he says it makes her shiver with pleasure. It will be long time, years from now, when those words make her shiver with fear. Then, she will find it disturbing.

Right now, she's just finds it romantic.

"I am?"

"Oh yes." He wraps his arms around her, and she curls to his side. They kiss again, and she lays her head on his chest, closing her eyes, feeling sated, feeling safe, feeling_ his._

The last thing she hears, before she drips off to sleep, is his voice.

"You are mine, Alma. Now, and always."


	10. Chapter 9

Blood Roses 

Chapter 9: Passages 

Alma wakes slowly at first, until the events of the previous night come rushing back. Then, she opens her eyes wide. She reaches to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty, and for one wild moment, she thinks she must have dreamed it all…

"Good morning."

She looks up, and he's sitting there in a robe, at a table set for breakfast. _No, this is real. This is all really happening._

"Good morning," she says, and smiles hesitantly. Another robe is laid out for her on the bed, and she slips it on, avoiding his eyes as she does, but aware of his gaze. Ridiculous that she should feel shy, uncertain after last night, but somehow, she does.

What does all this mean?

She slips into the chair facing him. A million thoughts race through her mind. Will he somehow respect her less, now that she's succumbed to him? What if … What if she was only a conquest, what if he only enjoys the pursuit, what if he grows tired of her, what if she doesn't really mean as much to him as –

"Alma?"

She clears her throat. "Hm-mm?"

"Look at me."

She shakes her head, feeling childish and reticent.

"Alma…"

He gets up from the table and goes over to her, gently pulling her out of the chair. He tilts her chin up so she is forced to meet his gaze, and then he kisses her, not demandingly or roughly, but tenderly, softly, so that she feels all her worries and insecurities fade away, and when he pulls back, she smiles at him, lays her head on his chest, and just lets her hold him.

After a moment, they both sit back down to eat.

"What time we will get back to the Capitol?" She asks after they finish.

"In a few hours, I should think."

"Then … we have some more time … to ourselves?"

"So it would seem." A pause, and then, "Would you care for another game of chess?"

This time, it's she who gets up to kiss him. "Not really."

He reaches for the sash on her robe. "Good. Neither would I."

They arrive later in the day. It's almost strange to go back to the formality of the Capitol. Some irrational part of her worries that it will be obvious to everyone, what has happened between them, but then she reminds herself that anyone speculating about their relationship has probably already assumed all sorts of things anyway, and why she should let it bother her? In any case, there is business to be attended to, mundane business, but still a part of her job, and she does her best to keep herself focused and professional for the rest of the day, before returning to her quarters, acting like everything is normal.

Except that things aren't normal. Beside when she arrives at her rooms, it appears they've been completely … cleaned out.

And she has a feeling she knows why.

There are guards of course, posted outside his own private rooms. They nod to her, their faces blank. If they have any opinions or judgements on the fact the Minister of Affairs is knocking on the President's door in the middle of the evening, they are adept at keeping it to themselves.

For this, Alma is grateful.

"Come in."

When she enters, she's hardly surprised at what she sees. Her things have been moved into his rooms. Well, he certainly has enough space for them, she supposes. It's almost … disconcerting, how easily all her things are blending in with his, almost as if they've been … absorbed, engulfed.

A strange thought.

"You look … perturbed, Alma."

"You …. You had my rooms cleared out and my things moved … here," she says, stating the obvious.

His brow creases. "And this displeases you?"

She folds her arms across her chest. "Well, it would have been nice to have been consulted on the matter."

"You'll forgive me if I was under the impression that you wanted to be near me." There it is again, that hint of vulnerability, of hurt feelings. It gets her every time. Only years later, when she looks back, will she see it for the skillful manipulation that it was. How quickly it leads her to deny her own instincts, to overlook his presumption, to submit so willingly to his control.

"Of course I want to be near you," she reassures him, moving to embrace him. "I just … I guess I didn't think about … what that meant. And what will people think…"

"Alma, my dear, you must stop letting the opinions of others guide your actions. The important thing is whether _you _want to be here or not."

"I do," she says softly, caressing his face. And she means it. Suddenly, the thought of sleeping alone in her own bed is simply unbearable. Why wouldn't she want to spend every other night like she had the last, safe and secure and curled to his side? He makes her feel so … wanted. Needed. Cared for.

Even …

"Good," he says. "Because after last night … I can't be without you."

It's the softness. It's the softness he shows her that undoes her. She knows the things he's done, the things he's capable of … but she also knows that he's been her solace, and her teacher, and her lover, and that she cannot deny him. When he kisses her, everything else goes away. There are no games and there are no Games, and she is just … his.

Afterwards, she curls into him again.

"_Amica mea_," she hears him whisper.

"What's that?" She murmurs.

"Just a harmless little endearment."

"_Amica mea_," She repeats thoughtfully. She likes the sound of it. "Is that Latin?"

"It is." His lips brush her forehead.

She looks up at him. "You're not going to tell me what it means, are you?"

"I trust you'll figure it out."

"You're teasing me"

"Am I?"

"Hmm, you're always teasing me," she says, doing her best to sound annoyed, but she doesn't quite manage it, especially since she begins to kiss him right after.

"I don't think you mind it, my dear."

"You're right. I don't."

The next day of course, she looks it up.

_Amica Mea._ Latin for_ my love._

She feels all her insides turn to butter.

And that night, she is the first to arrive at his – _their_ – quarters, and when he opens to the door, she comes to him, and kisses him fiercely.

"_Amica mea_," she says.

"Ah, you looked it up then." He seems pleased, amused.

The words burst out of her: "I love you."

He stares at her, and she at him. Her heart is in her throat.

"Alma … say that again."

"I love you." He kisses her. "I love you." He pushes her onto the bed. "I love you, Cori, I love you… yes … _oh yes _…"

And it's only after he has taken her, and she is warm and trembling in his arms, that he whispers in her ear, "I love you too, Alma."

After that … after that, she doesn't know what. She doesn't know, and she doesn't care. During the day, when she is by his side, and they are calm, cool, professional. But as soon as the doors close behind them in the evening, they are warm, wild, passionate.

Years later, when she looks back on this time, she will try to remember not the nights, but the days. She will try to remember all the little concessions she made, all the battles she left unfought, all the ideas about changing things and ruling the districts more benevolently that began to erode in her mind. But the nights are always there, always vivid, and she cannot rid herself of them, cannot separate her personal and professional selves, because they are hopelessly and helplessly intertwined.

The truth is, she was young and drunk with love for him. And not only did she not have the wherewithal to realize she was losing herself, what's more, if she had, she wouldn't even had minded it was happening. That was how much he meant to her.

And not only does she spend time with him, she spends time with his daughter as well. They become … friends of a sort, which Alma enjoys a lot more than she thought she would. Although the girl has no political ambitions, she proves to be every bit as intelligent as her father, and she has to admit to herself that she didn't give Cassia enough credit in the beginning. They even take to playing chess every week. It's when they have their best conversations.

And it's on one such night when they have a particularly interesting one.

"I'm going to beat you this time."

"Hmm. We'll see."

"Hey, I learned from a master you know."

"Well, so did I."

"Does it ever bother you that you're closer in age to me than you are to father?" Cassia likes to toss off statements like these, throwing them like grenades, especially when they're in the middle of a match. It has been understood between them that they are no longer challenges, they are merely a way for her to try and distract Alma from the board.

"Not really, dear," she says, making a move which captures one of Cassia's pieces, causing her to frown. "Does it bother you?"

"Maybe at first, but not now," Cassia admits, contemplating her next move. "Just don't expect me to call you 'mom.'" Alma snickers at the thought.

"Well, that wouldn't even make sense, unless…" She trails off awkwardly, realizing the implication, and feels herself redden slightly.

"He'll never marry you, you know."

She looks up, to find Cassia's expression almost apologetic.

"Alma, what I mean is … if he married you, he would have to make your relationship public. You see, _my _relationship with him is public, and that can't be helped because I'm his daughter. If he married you, it would be a matter of public record, and public interest, and even with the control he has over the media, it would invite a certain level of scrutiny…"

"Your point being?"

"My point being … he doesn't want to share you with them. With anyone. He wants you all to himself. And my father always has what he wants."

Alma ignores the sudden shiver that goes down her spine at Cassia's matter-of-fact tone. "I think … you are a very intelligent and insightful young woman, Cassia."

"Why thank you Alma, dear, I feel the same way about you."

"You think you're funny, don't you?"

"Are we going to braid each other's hair and gossip now?"

"Oh god, I hope not."

"Your hair might look pretty in a braid…"

"Are you going to make a move or not?"

Time passes – a year, then two. She is happy, happier than she ever thought she could be, but still, there is something in the back of her mind, a nagging feeling that things are not quite right, that she has forgotten something, that she has lost sight of her earlier goals.

It's when this feeling is strongest that she usually gets into arguments with him.

Because the truth is, no matter how complacent she grows, she is never entirely comfortable with the idea of The Hunger Games.

"Cori, I'm just saying it's been almost 50 years since the rebellion. How long are we going to keep punishing them?"

"It's not about punishment Alma, it's about maintaining order and control."

"Well, there has to a better way to do it…"

"As brilliant as you are my dear, you've yet to come up with a viable alternative in all the times we've discussed this."

"What about what I said back during the debate, about making the Games non-lethal?"

"As I said, you've yet to come up with a _viable_ alternative …"

"Why is it not viable?"

"It would the eliminate the element of fear, which, as we've established, is a vital part of –"

"If you start quoting 'The Prince' at me again, I am walking out of here. I mean it." She stands there, hands on hips, wishing he didn't look so amused with her, wishing he would take her seriously.

"Are you aware that you're rather adorable when you're being stubborn?" When his voice goes all soft like that … she bites her lip, and masters herself with effort.

"Don't I get any say in how this country is run?"

"Of course you do, which is why you're in my cabinet. But you don't get to decide things like this, Alma." He's sounds so damn calm and reasonable. It's infuriating!

"Well, when _will _I get to decide things like this then?"

"When I'm dead."

Her hands drop to her sides, and it take her a minute to find her voice. "That's … that's a horrible thing to say."

"I'm not going to live forever, Alma."

"And you think I'm just … what? Waiting around for you to _die_? Is that what you think of me, after all we've…" She feels her throat go tight and her eyes blur with tears. Without waiting for him to answer, she grabs a few of her things and heads to the door.

"I can't sleep here tonight –"

She hasn't taken two steps before he's caught her, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"Alma…" He nuzzles her neck. She wriggles somewhat half-heartedly in his grasp, trying to maintain a clear head, which isn't easy, especially when he starts kissing her …

"Hmm … no … I'm … still mad at you…"

"Oh, don't be, _amica mea_, don't be …"

"You can't just … _ooh_... Cori, you're not playing fair… oh Cori, _Cori_…"

Afterwards, when she's capable of coherent thought again, she tries feebly to admonish him. "You know, you can't win every argument that way." He chuckles.

"Oh, but why not? It's such fun…" He trails off when he sees her expression.

"What to do you want me to do, Alma?"

"Well … let me see another Reaping. Not in One or Two," she adds hastily. "Let me see how it really is, if you're so keen on getting me to accept the Games as they are."

He looks resigned. "What district did you have in mind?"

"Twelve." What could be further removed from the Capitol than that?

He sighs. "Next you'll be asking me to take you to Thirteen."

"But it doesn't exist anymore."

He looks at her, and then away, quickly. "I meant that at this rate, you'd be wanting to see the rubble. Honestly, Alma –"

"Just let me go there, I won't be gone long –"

"I am not letting you there!" He says, his voice sharp. But looking at her, his expression softens.

"Not alone, anyway."

She grins and then kisses him. "Thank you, _amica mea_."

"You know, you can't win every argument this way," he says, and she laughs and curls into him.

"Oh, but why not? It's such fun."

District Twelve is one of the poorest districts in Panem, and it shows. The children are all there, many looking small and underfed, but all dressed in their meager best. Decades later, when she looks back on her time there, she never would have guessed that only a year later, a boy from this district would win the Second Quarter Quell.

Of course, a lot of things happened in Twelve that she never would have guessed at…

She doesn't know how it happens, but it does. After the Reaping, she gets separated from him. There's some sort of agitation, some sort of commotion, and before she knows it, he's on one side, she's on the other –

She tries to tell herself not to panic. She's still got her two guards –

The sound of gunfire shatters her determination to remain calm, and she begins to run, stumbling in her heels –

Suddenly, she's being grabbed, dragged into a building, and pinned against the wall.

She screams, and hand covers her mouth. She bites down, hard, and has the satisfaction of hearing a yelp of surprise as her captor lets go. She struggles, but he pins her arms down by her sides.

"Listen to me – I'm not going to hurt you – listen to me!"

He's a man of about her age, with thick black hair and blue eyes – not light blue, like Cori's, but a much darker blue, deep and impenetrable.

"Let me go!"

"Calm down!"

"Let me go, I'm a Minister –"

"We know who you are, Alma Stone."

"Do you?" She huffs, wondering exactly what _we_ means. "And just who do _you _think you are?"

"I'm Relius Coin, of District Thirteen. And we've been waiting a long time, Stone, for someone just like you."


	11. Chapter 10

Blood Roses

Chapter 10: Revelations

"You … you said you're from District Thirteen?"

She's alone with the man now. She's not sure how much time has passed. She thinks they must have given her something that knocked her out, because the last thing she remembers in the face of Relius Coin, and the next thing she knew, she was waking up with several different faces surrounding her, including his. Coin had told the others to wait outside, said to them that he could "handle" her on his own, that he wasn't afraid of her.

She only wishes she could be unafraid of him.

He's watching her warily. "That's right."

"But … but there is no District Thirteen. It doesn't exist anymore."

"And how do you know that, Stone? Because _he_ told you it didn't?" Coin's expression is derisive. "Do you believe everything you're told?"

"I believe it because I've seen footage of the rubble," she snaps. She won't let this man see how scared she is, or how close to the mark he just hit. It has indeed been a long time since she bothered to question anything Cori told her. "And no, I don't believe everything I'm told, especially when it's coming from some nut-job who abducted me off the street."

Coin grins. It should scare her more, but instead, it's almost … disarming. "Nut-job, huh? Well, it's good to see you haven't lost your bravado, Stone. Your fire."

"What are you talking about?"

"We've been watching you." She's listening to his words, but at the same time, she's wondering if she can make a move, try to run for it. "Thirteen still exists. The Capitol bombed the surface to rubble, but we survived. We went underground. And because we could hold the threat of nuclear weapons over their heads, the Capitol made a deal with us. In exchange for our autonomy, we had to let the rest of the Districts think we had truly been obliterated."

Something in her wants to believe him, something instinctive, but she's far from convinced. "Assuming all this is true, what the hell do you want from me?"

"As I said, we've been watching you. You see, the war never stopped for us. We still believe in the ideas that lead to the Rebellion."

"What ideas?" She snaps. "The ideas of overthrowing the government and letting anarchy and chaos reign?"

"No," he snaps right back at her. "The ideas of justice and equality. Of not letting people starve and die and work like slaves in the Districts while a pampered few in The Capitol get to live lives of luxury. Of making Panem a democracy and not an oligarchy. And of course, an end to casual brutality and suffering… like the Hunger Games." He gives her a pointed look.

"My speech. You heard my speech."

"We have eyes and ears in the Capitol. Some … many … of my colleagues thought you were just looking for a way to stand out, a way to get noticed, but I … I believed you meant what you said. I believed in you."

He locks eyes with her suddenly, and she finds she has no desire to look away. His is the kind of gaze that does not demand your attention, but asks for it, compellingly. She can see the determination in his eyes, the passion of his convictions, and she finds her doubt about the truth of his words rapidly evaporating.

"That was years ago," she says softly. "As you must be aware, I hold a high position in the Capitol government now. Even if I believed what I was saying then, what's make you think I haven't changed my mind?"

"Are you saying you have?"

"What makes you expect an honest answer from me, Coin? How do you know I won't just tell you what I want to hear, that I won't give you the answer that's the least likely to get me killed?"

"Because you're brave. You were brave enough to speak up then, even when it could have gotten you killed. And you're brave now, even when you're terrified."

Although she feels her heart thudding her chest, Alma gives him best impassive expression. "Do you really think so? Well, I hate to break it to you Coin, but you're not particularly terrifying."

He laughs, a strangely musical sound, but then his expression goes serious.

"Do you really believe the Hunger Games should continue?"

Before she can stop it, she finds herself answering him honestly. "No, I don't."

His smile is softer this time, almost reassuring. "That's what I thought. Which is why we came here, to recruit you –"

"_Recruit _me?"

" – To help us put an end to the Games, and so much more. Don't you see, we can make things better for everyone!"

"You … you want me to betray him."

Coin scowls. "President Snow is a despot. He's a monster. Deep down, you know that. You have to know that."

"That's … he's not … you can't talk about him like that!"

He looks at her with disgust. "So the rumors are true then, aren't they?"

"What rumors?"

"The ones that have been circulating around The Capitol for years, the ones that say the relationship between you and the President is … more than professional." He shakes his head. "I must say, I expected better of you –"

It's then that she delivers a swift knee to his groin. Maybe not the wisest course of action, but his words angered her far more than they should have.

"Where the hell do you think you get off expecting _anything_ from me? I don't care how long you've been watching me, _stalking me_, or what your grand plans are to use me! You think you know me, you think you get to sit in judgment of my actions? You don't know a damn thing about me, or what I have with him!"

Although he's doubled over in pain, he managed to look up at her with something like pity in his eyes.

"Oh, you poor stupid little girl, are you really so in love with him that you can't see what he truly is?"

"I'm not stupid, and I'm certainly not a little girl." She hisses at him. "I know … I know what he's capable of. But…"

"But you just choose to ignore it because you're so smitten?"

"There's more to it than that! There's more to _him_ than just … that." Her protests sound weak even to her own ears.

"Are you saying you won't help us?"

"Help you what? Help you kill him?" She feels herself shudder. "I can't … you …"

"He had your father killed."

Her heart stops. "W-what?"

"He had your father killed. Your father sympathized with us. He knew about the existence of Thirteen, and we planned on recruiting him. But Snow got rid of him before we could get to him." A bitter smile. "I'll say this for the old bastard, he's good and spotting and eliminating any potential threats."

"No … no … it was an accident… there was a landslide in District Two… he was crushed …"

"A landslide caused by an explosion. A rather convenient explosion, all things considered …"

Alma shoves him. "Why should I believe you? Why should I believe one single word you say? You want me on your side, you'd do anything, say anything!"

"Then don't believe me," he says, his eyes burning with intensity. He hands her a small device. "Search The Capitol Archives. Find out the truth for yourself."

There are noises from the behind the door, and they both turn.

"Coin, we don't have much time!" A voice says. He turns back to her, his expression grim but determined.

"Contact me when you learn the truth, with the device" he says. "I know you'll do the right thing, Stone. I still believe in you." He squeezes her hand, an almost tender expression coming over his face, and then he's gone.

The door bursts open, but there is no trace of Coin's companions, only the Peacekeepers.

"Madame Minister," one of them says, lowering his weapon. "Are you alright?"

"Yes … yes, I'm okay," she manages to get out.

"What happened? Was anyone else here with you?"

The device is still in her hand. She slips into her pocket in what she hopes is an unobtrusive manner. "I ... I got separated from my guards, and I ran for cover," she says, working hard to keep her voice steady. "This building appears to be abandoned. There's no one else here."

She is escorted from the building. From the Peacekeepers, she learns that President Snow was already sent back to The Capitol, "for his own safety," as they believe this was an assassination attempt. She also learns that they've been looking for her for the better part of 24 hours.

"I'm sure the President will be relieved that you're alright," the Head Peacekeeper says, in a voice that is carefully devoid of expression. "He didn't want to leave before we found you, but it was a matter of security."

"Of course."

It isn't until the train ride to The Capitol that she is finally, blessedly alone again. She wastes no time, knowing she won't be able to sleep, eat, or do anything else until she uses the device to accesses the archives, no matter how afraid she is of what she might find.

It takes half the night, but she discovers that Coin lied to her. The accident in Two that killed her father was really just an accident. Whether or not Thirteen was trying to recruit him is immaterial. Waves of relief wash over her, but they are short-lived. From what little she had seen of him, Coin didn't seem the type to risk abducting her just to be caught in a lie. There had to be more to it than this…

And during the other half of the night, she finds out what it is.

Cori did not have her father killed.

He did, however, had Gauis Aquinas killed.

Gauis Aquinas, a man she never even liked – a man she in fact had downright hated. A man who had pursued her and leered at her and had practically mauled her the last time she had seen him, a man who had been arrogant and obnoxious in every way.

But a man who had told her the truth about herself.

"There is written, her fair neck round about: _Noli me tangere_, for Ceasar's I am, and wild for to hold, though I seem tame."

And he had died for the crime of touching what belonged to Coriolanus Snow.

Alma feels cold all over.

She contacts Coin. His face fills her screen.

"Stone, I knew you'd …"

"You lied to me!" She says without preamble.

He has the grace to look abashed, at least. "I had to get your attention."

"By making me think my father was_ killed _by the man I love?"

"So you do love him, then. Even knowing what he did…"

"He didn't kill my father. He killed a man I didn't even like!"

Coin's expression hardens. "Oh, well I guess that makes it okay then. Because it was someone _you_ didn't like. No matter that he might have had family or friends that would morn him, as long as _you_ didn't care about him, his death was nothing to get upset over, right?"

"That's not fair –"

"What's not fair is what _the man you love_ is doing the Districts, to all of us! Come on Stone, how much longer can you keep lying to yourself? How much longer can you turn a blind eye to his cruelty?"

"He … he told me that he only kills when it's necessary –"

"Do you call Gauis' death _necessary_? How can you trust him after what you've seen, after what you know?"

"Maybe a better question is, why should I trust you?"

This seem to stop short his righteous indignation, which is satisfying, even the midst of her turmoil.

"I…"

"If you're saying he lied to me, he manipulated me … well, what's make you any different? Haven't you just done the same thing, right now?"

He takes a deep breath. "Listen…"

"No, I'm done listening to you. I won't help you. We're finished." She terminates the call.

Alma lays back wearily. She's so tired, but she doubts sleep will come easily.

Not until she's made a decision. Because despite what she said to Coin, this has shaken her to her core, and she doesn't think she can just go back to the way things were.

It's not until late in the next evening that the train pulls into The Capitol. She sleeps some, but fitfully, often starting awake from disturbing, half-remembered dreams.

She's escorted, under guard, back to the Presidential Palace.

Back to their rooms.

Their eyes meet, and his gaze holds her hostage until the doors close behind him.

"Alma…"

She feels a sob rise in her throat, and she rushes to embrace him, burying his face in her chest. Despite everything, feelings of relief overwhelm her.

But when she pulls back, his expression frightens her.

"We never should have gone to Twelve. I never should have let you talk me into it." He's gripping her arms tight, and her voice is strangely intense. "No more of this foolishness, Alma. Do you hear me?"

"Cori…"

"Do you realize what could have happened? Do you understand now why things need to be kept as they are?" He grips her tighter. It _hurts_.

"Cori, you're…"

"I should never have taken you there, I should never have _left _you there, I should never have let you out of my sight!"

"You're hurting me!"

He stares at her, and his hands go slack. Wordlessly, he turns from her, move towards the window. Is she imagining it, or is he actually shaking a little?

"You were afraid." She says softly. Even after all the time they spent together, it's hard for her to grasp. He's always so stoic, so strong…"You were afraid for me."

He does not face her. "Of course I was. If I were to lose you…"

She approaches him, and tentatively places her hand on his back. He doesn't shrug her off, but he doesn't really respond either.

Undeterred, she wraps her arms around him from behind. "Cori, I'm safe. I'm alright. I'm right here, with you."

He turns then, and kisses her. He kisses her breathless, and she lets him, lets the intensity of his embrace blot out everything else.

"Alma." He says her name over and over, like a plea, like a demand.

"Cori, Cori…" She loves him. God help her, she loves him _so much_…

Afterwards, she lies in his arms.

"You are mine," he whispers to her, "You are mine, Alma, now and always."

_For Caesar's I am … _"And you love me?"

"And I love you, of course." He smiles, and she lays her head on his chest, avoiding his eyes.

When he's sure he's asleep, she eases herself out of his grasp.

"I love you too, you know," she says to his sleeping form. "Despite everything, I don't think that can ever change."

She slips out of bed and moves into the bathroom. She turns on the water to muffle the sound of her tears.

When she has dried her eyes, she activates the device Coin gave her.

"Stone, I'm so glad you've –"

"Save it. I've decided I'll help you, but I have one condition."

He looks dubious. "Which is?"

"He doesn't die. Him or his daughter. I want your word, Coin."

"I wasn't aware my word meant so much to you."

"Well it does." She doesn't know why, but somehow she feels, deep in her bones, that she can trust him.

"All right. You have my word."

"Good. Now, tell me what I need to do."


	12. Chapter 11

Blood Roses

Chapter 11: Caged

"Let the 49th Annual Hunger Games begin."

She sits by his side, watching. When his arms slips around her, she automatically curls into him.

In the chair next to the couch, Cassia leans in. Her expression is inscrutable. Vaguely, Alma wonders if the girl learned that impassive face from her. She's grown so much in the last few years; she's officially an adult now, though as she often says, "You wouldn't know it from the way my father treats me."

Like Alma, she loves him deeply.

Like Alma, she also chafes under his control.

The Cornucopia is a blood bath, as usual. She and Cassia both wear matching impassive expressions, but even so, they both flinch when a 12-year-old boy is decapitated.

"Are you alright, my dear?"

She turns in his arms, smiling tightly. "I'm fine."

She gets the feeling he wants to say more, maybe even pick a fight, but since Cassia is with them, he doesn't pursue it.

When she met Coin, it was like … it was like she had been waiting for him. Well, not precisely him, but _something_, something to kick her out of her complacency. In the cocoon of The Capitol, it's so easy to intellectualize the brutality and the cruelty of it all … except for moments like these, when she's watching it like entertainment.

_How can we just watch while children die?_ She asks herself. _How can_ you_, Cori?_

But she knows the answer to the second question, at least.

_Coriolanus Snow only cares for those who belong to him._

God knows she does.

She loves him. She loves them both.

And she is betraying them.

She sent the first set of codes to Coin this morning. According to him, the plan is to shut down The Capitol's defense system. Of course, the security codes rotate, which is why over the course of a year or so she will have to feed them to him – along with intelligence, troop information, and basically anything else she can get her hands on. The plan is to overtake the Peacekeepers before they know it, to stage a coup with a "minimum of bloodshed."

"What does 'minimum of bloodshed' mean, exactly?" She had asked him.

"Revolutions aren't easy," had been his grim answer for terminating the call.

In any case, things are going to remain as they are for a while.

On the one hand, she wants to stay like this for as long as she can. According to Coin, Cori and Cassia will be forced into exile, but she isn't foolish enough to think she can go with them. Cori will never, ever forgive her.

Which means her time with them before the coup is precious, because after that, she will probably never see them again.

But on the other hand … on the other hand, she's lying to them. Betraying them. Every day.

And god, she just wants it to be_ over_…

She leans her head on his shoulder. His lips brush her forehead…

No, no she doesn't.

Because she doesn't know how to let go.

As time passes, she tries to forget what will eventually come to pass, if they are successful. They are trying to be careful, so Coin often goes for long stretches without communicating. She tries to bury herself in work, in her love for him.

How can it happen? How can there come a time when won't kiss her breathless, when he won't enfold her in his arms, when his soft voice doesn't soothe her to sleep?

But the most frightening question is: Who is she without him? Who can she possibly be? She has been _his _for so long, she doesn't know if she can even remember how to be anything else.

Before she knows it, it's time for another Victory Tour. When she dances with him, she wonders if it will be the last time. She's always wondering about last times these days. Will this be the last time she dances with him, blushes for him, kisses him, makes love with him?

Later, in the night, she can't sleep. She slips out of bed, out of his arms, restless, tense.

She startled when the device Coin gave her indicates a message. She frowns. Could this be a trick? This isn't one their scheduled meeting times…

"Coin? What is it?"

There only audio, no video, but his breathing sounds labored, and his voice, when he speaks, is laced with pain.

"I need your help. Can you meet me … in the Tribute Center?"

"What happened?"

"Just come … please… and … if you could bring some bandages and …" A ragged breath, and then the call terminates.

In a panic of action, she gets bandages, pain medication, and whatever else she can find. How she makes it to the Center without losing it, she doesn't know.

She finds him sprawling a corner, bleeding from his side. The wound looks painful but not fatal.

"You idiot," she hisses at him. "I thought you were dying or something."

He grins. "You were worried about me, Stone. I'm touched." His grin turns into a grimace of pain.

"Oh, shut up and let me take care of this."

She patches him up as best she can. She's no doctor, but common senses dictates applying pressure to the wound.

"What happened? Why are you even in The Capitol?"

"As much as I enjoy our time together, Stone, handling you is not my only job."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning … covert ops. Tactical scouting. That sort of thing."

"Hmm. I think you're just trying to make yourself sound important."

"Well, can you blame me? You're a hard woman to impress, after all."

"So that's why you got yourself shot? To impress me?"

"No. I got myself shot because I was careless. But don't worry, the Peacekeeper who did it is dead."

"I'm supposed to be happy you killed someone?"

"Be happy he isn't here to identify me … or you." When she is silent, he adds, "Wars have casualties, you know."

Her hands are still on his side. "I know that."

He's revving up for another revolutionary lecture, she can tell. "If you want to mourn someone, how about those 23 children that died in the Arena six months ago?"

"You're right," she snaps bitterly. "I mean, it's not like I can do both, right?"

He takes a breath. "What I mean is…"

"Peacekeepers are from District Two, Coin. They're not Capitol Scum, are they? To hear you tell the tale, they're as much 'District Slaves' as the tributes, aren't they?"

"I … I never said people in The Capitol were scum…"

"You didn't have to. That's what you think."

"Shows what you know, Stone. I think people in The Capitol are as much slaves as the rest of us." That surprises her, and she looks up from the bandages to meet his gaze. "You just happen to have a lot nicer cage than the rest of us, that's all. A gilded cage, if you will."

Despite everything, she finds herself smiling at him. "That's … an interesting concept."

"Besides, if I thought everyone in The Capitol was scum, I never would have taken a chance on you. And as it turns out, you're pretty amazing."

She feels her face grow warm, and looks away again. "You don't need to flatter me Coin, I'm already doing what you want."

"It's not flattery, it's the truth. You're brilliant, and you're strong, and you're brave."

She feels her face grow warmer. Why is he having such an effect on her?

He doesn't seem amused by her blushing. He doesn't remark on it, or says it's becoming. He simply looks at her with a clear, clean gaze, and waits for her to respond.

"High praise, indeed. But are you sure you aren't just seeing what you want to see?"

"Very sure."

"You think you know me so well?"

"I'm beginning to."

"I … look, I have to go, Coin. Will you be okay now?"

"Yeah, I think so. Thanks a lot. I owe you."

"You do." She flashes him a grin.

She makes her way back home, back to their rooms. She moves carefully. If she can just slip back into her night clothes and into bed beside him, he should never know that she was even –

"Where were you?"

She yelps. Her heart thuds and her mouth goes dry. She doesn't turn on the light until she's sure she's stopped shaking. "Cori! You scared me."

"Where were you?"

His eyes are cold, cold as a snake's. It takes her breath away.

"Are you going to answer me?"

She takes a deep breath, and folds her arms across her chest. She needs to go on the offensive.

"I might, if you stop treating me like I'm Cassia out past her curfew."

"Alma –"

"I couldn't sleep, all right? I woke up and felt restless, so I went for a walk – what?"

"You are _not_ leave here again without my permission –"

"Permission? What the hell – ? You don't _own _me!"

But of course he does. As if to prove it, he stalks across the room to her and takes her in his arms, spinning her around, pushing until her back hits the wall.

"Haven't we established that your _mine_?" He hisses at her. Pressed up against him like this, trapped in his embrace, she feels angry, and guilty, and …

And …

"You know what I think? I think you're just picking a fight with me so we can … make up."

She watches as his expression changes, hating herself, loving him, wanting to be free, wanting to be possessed.

"And if I am?"

"Then I say, let's skip straight to the good part," she purrs, and kisses him.

Afterwards, she lies in his arms, shaking for an entirely different reason.

"You're not really mad at me, are you?"

He sighs. "No, _amica mea_. I just … I just want to know, that you're safe, that's all. When I woke up and you weren't there…" He doesn't finish.

"Oh Cori, I'm so sorry. I didn't think … I didn't mean to … unsettle you…"

"After what happened in Twelve, Alma, can you blame for not wanting to let you out of my sight?"

"Of course not."

"Well, then maybe you should stay where I can see you."

_Where else can I go, Cori? I never meant to, but I've built my life around you …_

_How can I live without you? And how can I live with_ myself_, when all this is done?_

"All right," she says, struggling to keep her tone light. "I guess I could try that."

He nuzzles her neck, and she curls into him, as she always does. She makes herself soft, she makes herself small, she fits into the roles she's set out for her, into the space circumscribed by his arms.

Coin was wrong. The Capitol is not a cage. At least not for her.

No, her cage is _him_. A safe place, a place that keeps her love in and her freedom out.

And she is afraid, very afraid, that she will never learn to live happily outside her captivity.


	13. Chapter 12

Blood Roses

Chapter 12: Blood Roses

She holds her breath until his face fills the screen. When he smiles, she does too.

"Stone."

"Coin."

"I wanted to thank you for your help earlier. I … I didn't know who else to call."

"It's fine."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay… did … did anyone notice you were gone?"

He sees the change in her expression. "What?"

"He was awake when I got back…"

"Oh my god – are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"Of course I'm okay! He would never hurt me! He …" _Loves me. And I love him, despite the fact that I'm betraying him._

"What did you tell him?"

"I said I was out for a walk."

Coin looks dubious. "And he believed you?"

She feels her face color and looks away from the screen. They are both silent for a moment.

"What do you see in him?"

She turns back and gives him best impassive expression. "That's none of your business."

He sighs. "Okay. I was just concerned for you, that's all."

"Of course you're concerned. I'm the key to all your plans."

"That's not why I'm concerned! We'll okay, that's not the only reason why…"

She raises a brow.

"We're friends," he says simply.

"We are?"

"Ouch, Stone."

"Well … I just … I'm sorry… I've never been very good at friends. In fact, I … I don't really have any."

"Well, you have one now."

Something warm flutters in her chest, something like hope.

"Well, thank you." There is something very disarming about that smile of his. It makes him seem almost … boyish. "Look Coin, you have the codes. I have to get going, so unless there's…"

"Rel."

She blinks. "What?"

"You can … call me Rel. You know, short for Relius. That's what my friends call me."

She feels awkward suddenly. All this time they've spent communicating, something like respect, something like caring has grown between them, and now they seem to fumbling towards the declaration of a true friendship, at the end.

"Okay, Rel."

"Okay, Alma."

"Oh, I didn't say you could call me Alma."

"Well, I'm going to anyway," he retorts, and they both laugh.

"Actually, there is something else I wanted to tell you, Alma." She likes the way he says her name. Not like he owns, but like he appreciates it, respects it. "We … we have an end date in sight."

Her heart beats faster. "When?"

"We think … about six months out … with the codes you gave us, we'll be ready to move."

"The Victory Tour," she realizes. "It's going to happen during the Victory Tour."

"Yeah, I hate that we have to let another Hunger Games take place, but it seems to be the perfect time. I … thought you should know."

"You still promise they won't die?"

"They won't. I think if we want to prove the rightness of our cause, we need to start by showing the mercy he never did."

Despite everything, she finds herself smiling. "That sounds like something out of a speech."

"Does it? I must have picked up the gift for rhetoric in all the time I spent listening to you."

"I … I can't believe I have so little time left."

"You should be happy, Alma. It's almost over."

She doesn't say anything.

"But of course you can't be. Because of what you'll lose … you really do love him, don't you?"

"If you're going to lecture me …"

"No, I won't. I just … I just think you deserve better is all. I think you deserve someone whose love isn't a cage." She looks up then, startled he at his keen perception of her conflicted thoughts.

"Rel…" It feels so natural to call him that.

"It's … never mind, Alma. Like you said, it's not my business. Just … be careful. We'll talk again soon." He terminates the call.

She takes a deep breath. She is still dreading the future, the loss of Cassia, of Cori.

But it is go to know that, when all this is over, she will have at least one friend she can count on. Maybe there can be life after Coriolanus Snow, after all.

The 50th Hunger Games are upon them soon enough. The last Games, if Rel and his people have anything to say about it. The Second Quarter Quell.

Alma has seen the First Quarter Quell re-played on television. The Reapings were the worst part, where people from each District had to vote who went into the Arena. The looks of hurt and betrayal on all those young faces … they expected brutal treatment from The Capitol, but not from their own. It was a strategy as brilliant as it was cruel, a way to keep people from uniting against The Capitol, even within their own Districts, by forcing them to turn on each other.

The Second Quarter Quell has a simpler kind of brutality.

She stands by his side while he makes the announcement, along with other government officials. She wonders if somewhere, Rel is watching her, trying to discern something from her carefully impassive expression…

Twice the number of tributes. Twice as many children will die.

She wonders if Rel wishes he could move up his timetable now.

It isn't long after the announcement that it's Reaping Day. She sits with him and watches, Cassia by their side.

Even with The Quarter Quell, the Reapings are hardly much to remark on.

When they get to Twelve, though, she pays attention. She can't help remembering the last time she was there._ The beginning of the end …_

Years later, she can never remember who the other two children were. They must have died early on.

But she remembers Maysilee Donner. She recognizes the visage of someone trying desperately to maintain an impassive expression

And she remembers Haymitch Abernathy, the exact opposite, sullen, scowling, pissed off.

If she had wanted to bet on one of them to win, it wouldn't have been him. He obviously had strength, but he seemed like too much of a hot-head to make it very far.

After it's over, Cori deactivates the view screen. "Cassia dear, would you excuse us please? Political business, I know it will only bore you."

After Cassia leaves the room, she leans in and kisses him. He responds for a moment, but then pulls away.

She looks at him questioningly. "Oh wait… we really do need to discuss some political business? I thought you just wanted some … private time …"

He trails a finger down her jawline. After all this time, his touch can still make her shiver with pleasure. "As enjoyable as that would be, my dear, there is something we need to talk about first."

She tries to ignore the sudden sense of dread. "Well, all right."

"It's about District Thirteen."

_Breathe. Don't react. Breathe. _"What can there be to say about a place that no longer exists?"

"That's what I mean, Alma. It does still exist."

She hopes she looks shocked.

Slowly, he tells her what she already knew, what Rel told her. Of course, his version cast the citizens of Thirteen as "dangerous agitators" rather than rebel heroes, but then, she can hardly be surprised the story changes depending on which side is telling it.

"Cori, who … who else knows about this?" She asks after he finishes.

"Only a few key people in the government."

She stands up, moves away from him, and folds her arms across her chest. She hates that she has to put on this show of ignorance and indignant feelings for him. "But not your Minister of Affairs. I guess I'm just not important enough. I guess I don't matter enough…"

"Of course you do…"

"I meant outside of the bedroom!" She's surprised at the real surge of anger that leads her to say this, but she lets it carry her.

He sighs and stands up. "Alma, please, not this again. No one sees you that way."

"Much as you'd like to, Cori, you don't control what people think."

"And much as you'd like to pretend not to, Alma, you care too much about what people think."

"I don't … look, we're getting off the point."

"Which is?"

"Which is that you should have told me about this a long time ago!"

"You're right. I should have. I'm sorry."

That stops her short, and she feels her anger deflate when she remembers all that she knows and all that she's done. It's so rare for him to apologize for … well, anything.

"So why are you telling me now?"

"There are always concerns about District Thirteen wanting to start another rebellion. With the Quarter Quell approaching, we fear they may try one, or at least try to make some sort of statement. They actually tried to start a revolution during the last Quarter Quell." He smiles, showing his teeth, and then adds chillingly, "It didn't take it."

"Oh." Suddenly she feels very small, and cold. Rel didn't tell her that. He should have told her that.

"I thought you should know. In case …" _In case someone from Thirteen tried to recruit me?_ "In case anything happened."

"Well … thank you for telling me." It has to work this time. It has to. She can't have sacrificed her relationship with the man she loves just to have the revolution fail and The Hunger Games continue.

His features soften. "So … you aren't still angry with me?"

She moves towards him, wraps her arms around him. She gives him a playful smile, even as she fights back tears. _I love you. I love you. If you never believe anything else about me, please believe that._

"Only a little bit," she says softly, as their lips meet. "But I think you can make it up to me."

The Games are awful, as they always are. Brutal, and savage, and … impossible not to watch. Haymitch and Maysilee become the undisputed stars as soon as they team up. They complement each other in so many ways. How quickly and how easily affection grows between them, in that beautiful, deadly Arena. They even become a bit flirtatious…

Upon separating temporarily for a strategic move, they kiss once, for luck. Then again, for a goodbye. The several more times, because they can, because they are young, because they are together, and because they dare to find a moment of happiness even in the shadow of death.

Haymitch gets back just in time to watch Maysilee die.

He holds her hand and begs her stay with him. She makes him promise to win.

And in that moment, Alma knows that he will. She knows it in her bones. The surly boy from Twelve will beat them all.

In the end, it comes down to him and a girl from One. She got him with her axe, and he got her with a knife in the eye, but they are both still alive. He's staggering away from her, holding his guts in, and she's trailing after him, one hand trying staunch the flow of blood from her now-empty eye socket.

She realizes before Cori does that Haymitch is leading her towards the edge of the Arena, towards the force field, and when she throws the axe, he ducks, causing it to rebound back at her and strike her dead.

"He killed her with her own weapon." She can't help but be impressed.

"No, he killed her with _our _weapon. The force field. He made us look foolish, weak. He shouldn't have been able to do that." Cori's voice is terrible, and he stands up, and stalks out of the room, like a snake ready to strike.

"Cori!" She calls after him. "Cori, wait! Can't we talk about … Cori, what are you going to do?"

But just stands there, fists clenched, shaking. She doesn't go after him.

She doesn't want to know the answer to her question.

He does not return until late in the night, long after she has gone to bed. When he slips in beside her, she pretends to be asleep, but when he reaches for her, she gives up the charade, and turns away.

"Alma…"

She does not turn to face him. "I guess we'll be needing a new Head Gamemaker next year, for starters…"

"Alma… you must understand…"

She finally turns to look at him then. "I understand. Why wait for Thirteen to tear us apart when we can just do it to ourselves?"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Don't tell me I don't –"

He kisses her, not gently. She feels desire rise in her, even as she pushes him away.

"No – Cori no! – You can't – kiss me into submission… this time…" But soon enough, she's kissing him back, hard, angry kisses, channeling all her rage and confusion and conflict into lust, that he should come to her, almost literally with blood on his hands, and that she should still want him so badly.

"Alma, I need you." It undoes her. Of course it does. For him to say _need_… "_Amica mea_…"

"_Amica mea_," she repeats as he presses her down, as he takes her, as he makes her helpless and heedless with pleasure. If there is blood on his hands, it's on hers too. They are no innocents here.

"You are mine, Alma."

"Yes …"

"Always."

"Always…"

In his arms, after they are spent, drifting off to sleep…

Sometimes, it is terrifying to belong to him.

And sometimes it is even more terrifying to think that she might not.

The next morning, not all of the tension has dissipated. "You're still going to crown him, aren't you?" She asks, as they get ready.

"No," he answers, as she turns in surprise. "_You _are."

"What – _why_?"

"Because I want it to be known that you are vital part of this government."

She laughs bitterly. "Try again, Cori."

"Fine. Because I'm the one in charge, and I say so."

Their gazes lock and hold for a long moment. She moves towards him.

"Yes. _Sir_." She hisses. She moves past him, intending to stalk out of the room, but he catches her arm.

"Alma…" He says, his expression softening, but she shakes her head.

"No. You don't get to prove your power over me and apologize for it in the same breath. It doesn't work that way."

This time, he does not try to stop her when she leaves.

She will do as he asked, of course.

But will commit a small act of defiance along the way…

It's worse than she thought, when it comes down to it. He looks numb, but at the same time, there's a fire in his eyes which almost frightens her. When his eyes lock with hers, his scowl lifts for a moment, and a look of surprise crosses his face.

"Who the hell are you?"

"No one important," she assures him with a bitter smile.

"Why are you doing this instead of him?" He mutters as she places the crown on his head.

"I think he's afraid of you," she blurts out before she can stop herself.

For the first time he smiles. "You're a liar. And I like you."

It isn't until later until she gets the chance to give him something far more precious than the crown.

"Mr. Abernathy."

He turns around, surly again. "What?"

She hands him Maysilee's Mockingjay pin. His eyes widen. He starts to say something, but she puts a finger to her lips. He gives her a dazed, grateful look and closes his hand around the pin before the guards come to escort him away.

Later that evening, as she returns to their rooms, she's ready to lay into him, to let him have it, to start a huge fight…

She stops when she catches sight of him, sitting on the bed, his posture uncharacteristically slumped, his eyes downcast, troubled.

She tries to hold onto her anger, even as she feels it dissipate.

It happens so rarely, but she can tell when he is afraid.

What is it in him that makes him so terrified of losing control? What caused him to be this way?

He raises his eyes to hers. She holds his gaze without malice.

"Alma, about the crowning…"

She shakes her head. "No. We're not going to talk about it." She moves towards him, sits behind him, and begins to massage his shoulders and back, easing the tension out until she can feel him relax.

"There," she says softly. "That's better, isn't it?" Her arms around his shoulders, she kisses his cheek.

"Why are you so good to me?"

"You know why."

He turns and gently pulls her into his lap, and they begin again. In contrast to the angry, almost frantic coupling of last night, this time is slow, sweet, soft. It is these moments, these rare flashes of vulnerability, that she can imagine knowing his secrets, knowing him better than anyone else. If not the particulars, then at least the results. She knows his deepest fears, his weaknesses … and the places where he hides his humanity.

At least she thought she did, back then, when she was young, and _stupid_, and in love.

"Alma," he whispers afterwards, as they hold each other, "Alma, I don't know what I'd do without you."

This is where she's supposed to say _You'll never have to find out_, but her eyes fill with tears and her throat grows tight and the words _stick _and she _can't_, she can't tell him another lie, not now…

"I'm right here," she says instead, "I love you Cori, and I'm right here."

Six months. She has six months left with him.

And they go by so fast…

They argue. They make up. They make love. She should be trying to disentangle herself from him, at least on an emotional level, but the truth is she feels more intertwined, more _his _than ever. She dreads the moment when all is revealed and she has to face him, and see the look of betrayal in his eyes.

"Alma, I promise that you won't be alone. I'll be in your corner. I'll always have your back."

When Rel says it, she believes him. His belief in her, in the cause, is sometimes the only thing that sustains her, that keeps her from going insane.

And then … and then it's time. The Victory Tour for the Second Quarter Quell is upon them.

It ends as it always does, in The Capitol. She goes to their rooms for the last time, to get ready for the party.

There is an outfit already laid out for her on the bed.

It's white, white as snow. It's a lovely dress, tasteful but understated, the sort of thing she might even pick out for herself. There's beading at the waist, and a rose pinned there.

But not her rose, not a sunset rose.

The white rose. _His._

Her hands ball into fists. That he would feel the need to control what she _wears_….

It's ridiculous, and insulting, and just like him.

Each of them has a bedside table. On his side are white roses. On her side are sunset roses.

She picks up the vase filed with white roses, and smashes it against the wall.

Then she picks up the vase filled with sunset roses, the ones he created just for her. For a moment, she hesitates, but then anger overcomes her, and she smashes it against the wall too.

She kneels down, among the shards and leaves and petals, and begins to cry.

"Cori, Cori," she sobs, in anger, in pain, in loss …

After a time, she composes herself, dries her eyes and gets dressed in the outfit he laid out for her.

It's time to make an end to this.

She moves among the guests, using her best impassive expression, until she meets Cassia, and forces a smile.

"Alma," Cassia kisses her cheeks in the Capitol fashion. "You look lovely."

"So do you," Alma says, and hugs her, to which Cassia reacts with pleased surprise. "Have you seen your father?"

"Hmm, I'm sure he's getting ready to make a big speech or something, with the Quell and all." Her brow creases slightly. "In fact, I would have thought you'd wrote one for him. Didn't you?"

Alma shakes her head, trying to maintain a neutral expression. "Not this time. I guess there's some things he has to keep secret, even from me." But Cassia has known her for years now, and can read her all too well.

"Alma, is something –"

Suddenly, they're jostled by someone who doesn't even have the grace to apologize. Annoyed, Alma turns…

And comes face to face with Haymitch Abernathy.

Cassia wrinkles her nose, and Alma can't blame her. He looks disheveled and reeks of booze. A brightly-colored-peacock of an escort trails after him, chattering worriedly, trying to make his excuses, but Alma silences her with a gesture.

"I can handle this." She takes the boy's arm and steers him away from the crowds.

"Mr. Abernathy, you need to sober up."

"Don't tell me what I need, you're not my goddamned mother!"

"Well, do you think she would be _proud _to see you in this state?"

"Wouldn't know, since they killed her."

"_What?_"

"And my little brother. Two weeks after I won. Punishment for my little stunt with the force field."

Alma feels cold. Where had she been, when this boy's family had been dying? Probably in bed, in the arms of their murderer…

"I'm so … sorry…"

He laughs, bitterly. "You still want me to stop drinking, lady?"

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she asks him another question.

"Where's your Mockingjay pin?"

"I… I sold it… or gave it away… or threw it out..." He stumbling now, his speech growling slurred, his eyelids growing droopy. "I couldn't stand to have it anymore … I couldn't stand to remember … how I lost her."

He falls down to his knees and begins vomiting. She remembers another young victor, drunk and sad and scared… it seems a long time ago now.

Cori probably had him killed.

But not this one. They are going to end this all, tonight. This one can be saved.

She gets him cleaned up, helps him to his feet. When he starts crying, starts talking about how he wishes he was dead, she holds him, cradling him like a child.

And he _is_ still a child…

"Why are you doing this?" He says, when he's able to form coherent sentences again. "Why do you care about me?"

"Not everything is as it seems, Mr. Abernathy."

"What the hell does that mean?"

For just a moment, she hesitates. But then, if it's all going to end tonight, what harm can it do to tell him now?

"Listen to me. You must not give up. You must survive. Thirteen still exists, and they are planning a rebellion. If you just hang on, all the suffering is going to end…"

He blinks at her, still drunk, and still disbelieving. "Who the hell are you?"

"I told you before. No one in important. Just the person asking you to hold on."

When he passes out, she leaves him, cleans herself up, and sends his nervous escort to hover over him, to find some way to get him back on his feet before the Presidential Welcome.

When the music sounds, she looks up, like she did the first time, before they formally met. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the boy, the victor, being propped up by his Escort.

Maybe she's imagining it, but it seems like Cori is staring right at her…

He begins a speech, one which she finds rather pedantic, and she wonders why he didn't let her write for him, like he usually does…

"…now more than ever, in our great nation, we need to pledge ourselves to upholding the power and glory of The Capitol, and thus, of Panem … no matter what the cost." There's no mistaking it now; he's looking right at her, his eyes cold, marbled like a snake's, and she couldn't look away if her life depended on it.

"No matter what the cost," he repeats, "Professional or … personal, threats against the stability of Panem will be … eliminated."

There are some confused murmurs in the crowd; this is not the usual sort of speech for the Victory Tour, and many are unsure what he's getting at. But Alma, breathless and frozen, knows _exactly_ what he means. He adds a few closing remarks, something more conventional, but she can't hear anything except the blood pounding in her ears, can't see anything except his cold blue eyes, resolved, merciless…

As the applause begins, she flees from the crowd, and contacts Rel. She's still able to get through, but it's audio only.

"Alma?"

"He knows," she gasps without preamble. "He knows, he knows everything! Whatever you're going to do, you need to do it _now_, before he –"

"Alma… the codes aren't working anymore."

She laughs madly. "Of course they're not! He knew, he knew the whole time I was working with you!" How long had he been aware of her duplicity? Since she came back from Twelve? Since she came back from helping Rel at the Tribute Center? All that time, she'd felt so guilty, keeping her secrets from him, and been toying with her, testing her, he'd been…

He'd been saying goodbye too.

"Oh god Rel, that speech, he was taunting me! He's going to –"

"Don't. Don't even think it. I'm in The Capitol. We can get you out. Meet me in the Tribute Center, like before –"

"He'll never let me go –"

"Alma, just trust me!" She's crying again, in sheer terror. "Baby, I promise, it's going to be okay. Just come find me. Just come find me, and we'll go."

"Okay," she gasps, and begins to run.

She makes her way to the Tribute Center, heart pounding, unable to tell if she's been followed, guided by his voice, turning down the halls when says to turn.

"Alma, you're almost there. I'm just on the other side of –"

Suddenly, there is a buzzing sound in her ears, drowning out everything else. At first she thinks it's just part of the adrenalin, and then she realizes…

With shaking his hands, she removes the rose from the sash on her waist, staring at it, hardly daring to believe that he would…

And the two tracker jackers, which had been lying dormant in the flower until this moment, flew out and stung her in the chest, just above her heart.

Their stings would leave marks, scars, subtle but distinct, which would never completely fade. In her later years, when she was alone, she would develop a habit of running her hand over them, to remind herself that, though she wore no collar around her neck, she is still permanently branded by him.

_There is written, her fair neck round about…_

"Alma?!" She can hear Rel's voice, not just through the device, but on the other side of the door. "Alma, please, just unlock –"

"I … I told you he'd never let me go…"

"Alma – listen to me!"

"Always he said, always he said…"

Things start to look… strange… shiny… Rel's voice fades, but _his _voice is everywhere.

"You are mine, Alma. Now, and always…"

His to love, his to kill. How did she ever think she could be free of him? He's a snake coiled around her heart, he's a weed who chokes out her light. White roses, sunset roses. His roses, her roses. It doesn't matter, it never did. They were all blood roses, and she has been bleeding for him since the day they met…

"Alma please!" Rel is screaming, but his voice seems so far away. She hears several thuds as he throws himself up against the door, then the sound of gun fire as he tries to blast it open. "Alma, please, I'm right here, I'm right here – just get up and open the door!"

_Cori, Cori … I won't let you win. I won't let you end me._

She crawls towards the door, which seems to slant now, somehow, reaches up, and releases the locking mechanism…

And then she's gone. Nightmares fill her vision, each one worse than the last, as the hallucinations take over, and when things finally go black, she wants to sob for the relief oblivion brings her.

She awakes with a scream, until she realizes it's Rel hovering over her, and not _him_.

"Alma, Alma, it's okay," he says, his hands on her shoulders. "It's just me."

Tentatively, she removes her breathing mask. She's still wearing her white dress, tattered and stained with blood, but there's an IV in her arm, and she's laid out on the floor under a pad and blanket, sort of makeshift-hospital style.

"Looks like you've finally stopped hallucinating." He gives her a tentative smile. "We gave you the anti-venom as soon as we could, but it takes some time to work…"

"Where … Where am I?"

"In a hovercraft, on the way to Thirteen."

"So much for your grand revolution, huh?"

He laughs softly. "Glad to see you still have your spark," he says, but then his expressions grows serious. "Alma, listen … no one blames you for this. We thought we were smart, that we were undetected … but we should have known better. _I _should have known better. You risked everything to help us, and that won't be forgotten. You'll be welcome in Thirteen. You can have a whole new life there."

She doesn't know what to say to that. Is she really free? Can she really live her life with Coriolanus Snow?

"Look … I know you've been through a lot. Just try to rest. We'll be home soon."

Alma wonders if she'll ever be able to think of Thirteen as _home_…

"I'm really glad you're okay."

"Because … because I might be useful the next time you plan a rebellion?"

"No," he says softly.

"Why then?"

"You know why." He leans over and kisses her forehead. He squeezes her arm, and then he leaves her to rest.

Alma lays back down, and closes her eyes. Cori's image fills her mind.

"Always," he says.

"Never. Never again," she whispers back. "I belong to myself now, not to you."

*Author's Note: Now seems as good a time as any to mention that this story has been inspired (at least in part) by a favorite song of mine. I think at least some of the lyrics are pertinent to the relationship I've been describing in this fic. And because, yes, I'm just that obsessed, I'm going to include the text of the song here:

_Blood Roses_ by Tori Amos

Ahaha... Ahaha... Blood roses, blood roses, back on the street now.  
Blood roses, blood roses back on the street now.  
Can't forget the things you never said.  
An on days like these starts me thinking.  
When chickens get a taste of your meat girl.  
When chickens get a taste of your meat, yes. Ahaha...  
You gave him your blood and your warm little diamond.  
He likes killing you after you're dead.  
You think I'm a queer, I think you're a queer.  
Said I think you're a queer, I think you're a queer.  
I shaved every place where you been boy.  
I said, I shaved every place where you been, yes. Ahaha...

God knows I know I've thrown away those graces...  
God knows I know I've thrown away those graces...  
God knows I know I've thrown away those graces...

The Belle of New Orleans tried to show me once how to Tango.  
Wrapped around your feet, wrapped around like good little roses.

Ahaha... Blood roses, blood roses, back on the street now.  
Blood roses, blood roses, back on the street now... now... now... now...  
You've cut out the flute from throat of the loon.  
And at least when you cry now, he can't even hear you.

When chickens get a taste of your meat girl,  
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon,  
Oh, when he sucks you deep, yes, sometimes you're nothing but meat...


End file.
